WITH  SHELLEY 


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With  Shelley  in  Italy 


Uniform  with  this  volume 
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FLORENCE  IN  THE  POETRY  OF 
THE  BROWNINGS.  With  over  60 
full-page  illustrations. 

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With  Shelley  in  Italy 

Being  a  Selection  of  the  Poems  and  Letters  of 

Percy  Bysshe  ^helley 

Which  have  to  do  with  his  Life  in  Italy  from 
1818  to  1822 


Selected  and  Arranged  by 

Anna  Benneson  McMahan 

Editor  of  "  Florence  in  the  Poetry  of  the  Brownings,"  etc. 

With  over  Sixty  Full-page  Illttstrations 
from  Photographs 


Chicago 

A.  C.  McClurg  &   Co. 
1905 


Copyright 

A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co. 

1905 

All  rights  reserved 

Published  October  14,  1905 


About  one-half  of  the  illustrations  of  this  volume  are  from  the  photo- 
graphs of  Alinari  Brothers,  Florence.  Of  the  others,  some  are  from  the 
local  photographers  at  Spezia,  Viareggio,  and  Pisa,  some  from  old  engravings 
made  in  the  early  part  of  the  nineteenth  century,  and  the  remainder  from 
photographs  made  expressly  for  this  work  by  Miss  Una  McMahan, 


THE   UNIVEKSITT   PRESS,    CAMBRIDGE,    U.  S.  A. 


G^ 


M  4 'A/ 


TO 

UNA    AND    FLORENCE 

m    MEMORY    OF 
OUR    SHELLEY    PILGRIMAGES 


31G 


Thou  Paradise  of  exiles,  Italy! 

Julian  and  Maddalo 


TABLE   OF  CONTENTS 

Page 

Genebal  Introduction xv 

THE    YEAR   1818 

Introduction  to  the  Year  1818 3 

Passage  of  the  Apennines 5 

Letter  from  Milan ,     .  6 

Letter  from  Leghorn 9 

Letter  from  Bagni  di  Lucca 9 

Extracts  from  "Rosalind  and  Helen" 10 

Letter  from  Florence 13 

To  Mary  Shelley 14 

Lines  Written  among  the  Euganean  HiUs 16 

Marenghi 29 

Julian  and  Maddalo 36 

Letter  from  Venice 59 

Letter  from  Este 62 

Letter  from  Bologna 64 

Letter  from  Rome 67 

Letter  from  Naples 70 

Stanzas  Written  in  Dejection,  near  Naples 73 

Letter  from  Naples 75 

Letter  from  Naples 80 

[vii] 


TABLE   OF  CONTENTS 

TEE    YEAR   1819 

Page 

Introduction  to  the  Year  1819 87 

Fragment :  To  Italy 90 

Fragment :  A  Roman's  Chamber 90 

Fragment :  Rome  and  Nature 91 

Letter  from  Rome 91 

Extracts  from  "  Prometheus  Unbound  " 103 

Letter  from  Rome 125 

Letter  from  Leghorn 126 

Extracts  from  "  The  Cenci  " 127 

The  Medusa  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci 143 

Love's  Philosophy 145 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind 146 

The  Indian  Serenade 149 

THE    YEARS  1820  AND  1821 

Introduction  to  the  Years  1820  and  1821 153 

Letter  from  Leghorn 156 

Letter  to  Maria  Gisborne 157 

The  Cloud 109 

To  a  Skylark 172 

Ode  to  Liberty 176 

Letter  from  Naples 187 

Ode  to  Naples 195 

Autumn :  A  Dirge 202 

The  Tower  of  Famine 203 

Epipsychidion 204 

To 226 

To 227 

Adonais 227 

[viii] 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

Page 

Letter  from  Florence 243 

Letter  from  Raveuiia 244 

Letter  from  Ravenna 247 

Letter  from  Pisa 248 

The  Boat  on  the  Serchio 249 

Evening  :  Ponte  al  Mare.     Pisa 254 

Chorus  to  Hellas  .     .' 255 

THE    TEAR   1822 

Inteoduction  to  the  Year  1822 259 

To  Jane  :  The  Invitation 264 

To  Jane  :  The  Recollection 267 

With  a  Guitar :  to  Jane 270 

To  Jane :  The  Keen  Stars  were  Twinkling 274 

A  Dirge 275 

Lines  Written  in  the  Bay  of  Lerici 275 

The  Isle 277 

Letter  from  Lerici 278 

Letter  from  Lerici 279 

Critical  Notices  of  the  Sculpture  in  the  Florence 

Gallery 280 

On  the  Niobe 280 

The  Minerva 2S2 

On  the  Venus  called  Anadyomcne 285 

Michael  Angelo's  Bacchus 286 

Index 289 


[ix] 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Faoe 

Casa  Magui,  Shelley's  home  on  the  Bay  of  Lerici,  in  1822  Frontispiece 

Among  the  Apennines  of  Tuscany 2 

Lake  of  Como 4 

Cathedral  at  Milan 6 

Cathedral  at  Milan 8 

Interior 
Valley  of  the  Lima,  at  Bagui  di  Lucca,  near  home  of  Shelley 

in  Summer  of  1818 10 

Scene  in  Tuscany 1^ 

Petrarch's  House  at  Arqua 16 

View  of  Venice  from  the  Lagoon 20 

Padua  and  Piazza  Vittorio  Emauuele S* 

Landscape  among  the  Euganean  Hills 28 

Florence 32 

The  Lido  at  Venice 36 

Among  the  Euganean  Hills ^O 

The  Doge's  Palace  at  Venice *" 

Leaning  Towers  of  Bologna 5* 

Bridge  and  Aqueduct  at  Spoleto 58 

St.  Cecilia  by  Raphael ^^ 

The  Virgin  appearing  to  Saint  Bruuo.    By  Guercino    ...  66 

In  Bologna  Gallery- 
Waterfall  at  Terni   ^8 

The  Coliseum  in  Shelley's  time 70 

[xi] 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Page 

Temple  of  Neptune  at  Paestum 74 

So-called  Basilica  at  Paestum 78 

The  Baths  of  CaracaUa  in  Shelley's  time 80 

City  and  Bay  of  Saleruo 82 

The  Roraau  Campagna 86 

Arch  of  Constautiue  at  Rome 90 

A  Corner  of  the  Forum  in  Shelley's  time 92 

Interior  of  Pantheon 96 

Bas-Reliefs  on  Arch  of  Titus 98 

The  Coliseum  seen  through  the  Arch  of  Titus 102 

Portrait  of  Beatrice  Cenci 126 

In  the  Barberiiii  Gallery,  Rome 

Cenci  Palace  at  Rome 132 

Castle  St.  Augelo 138 

Head  of  Medusa,  commonly  attributed  to  Leonardo  da  Vinci  142 
In  Uffizi  Galleiy 

Woods  of  the  Casciue  and  the  River  Arno,  near  Plorence       .  146 

Pineta  between  Pisa  and  the  Sea 152 

Portress  at  Staggia 180 

Street  in  Pompeii 186 

Amphitheatre  at  Pompeii,  with  Vesuvius  in  the  background  .  192 

View  of  Baife  and  Mare  Morto,  taken  from  Cape  Miseuum      .  196 

Porum  of  Pompeii,  with  Vesuvius  in  the  distance     ....  200 

Street  of  Tombs  at  Pompeii 204 

Grave  of  John  Keats  in  Protestant  Cemetery  at  Rome       .     .  206 

Monument  to  John  Keats 210 

Shelley's  Grave  in  the  Protestant  Cemetery  at  Rome     .     .     .  214 

Niobe 218 

In  Uffizi  Gallery 

Basilica  of  San  Vitale,  Ravenna 222 

Tomb  of  Theodoric  the  Great  at  Ravenna 226 

[xiij 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Pagb 

Churcli  of  Sant'  Apolliuarc  at  Ravenna 230 

Behind  Shelley's  house  m  Pisa 234 

The  Amo  at  Pisa 238 

Shellej's  house  in  the  foreground  at  left 

Protestant  Cemetery  and  Pyramid  of  Cestius  at  Rome    .     .     .  242 

Bay  of  Lerici,  with  town  and  castle  of  Lerici 246 

Hills  and  woods  of  San  Terenzo  on  Bay  of  Lerici     ....  248 

San  Terenzo  and  the  Bay  of  Lerici 250 

Shelley's  house  in  foreground  at  the  right.    Photograph  made 
about  1880,  previous  to  building  of  modern  road 

Porto  Venere  on  Gulf  of  Spezia,  opposite  Bay  of  Lerici     .     .     254 

View  on  the  River  Serchio 258 

Shelley's  home  on  the  Bay  of  Lerici 262 

Photograph  of  1904 
The  shore  at  Viareggio  where  Shelley's  funeral  pyre  was  made 

August  16,  1822 266 

Monument  to  Shelley  at  Viareggio 270 

In  Piazza  Shelley,  formerly  Piazza  Paolina 

Minerva 2^^* 

In  UflSzi  Gallery 

Venus  Anadyomene 278 

In  Uffizi  Gallery 
Michael  Angelo's  Bacchus 282 

In  National  Museum 


[xiii] 


Introduction 


UNDER  whatever  circumstances  and  in  whatever 
land  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley's  days  might  have  been 
passed,  his  innate  poetic  temperament  would  have 
been  sure  to  express  itself;  but  it  is  the  Italian  note  in 
Shelley's  poetry  that  makes  him  the  particular  kind  of  great 
poet  that  he  is.  Self-exiled  from  England  at  the  age  of 
twenty-six,  he  never  returned  to  that  country,  but  spent  the 
remainder  of  his  life,  four  years,  in  Italy ;  here  his  genius 
developed  toward  maturity,  here  his  muse  found  a  con- 
genial home  and  utterance.  Sky,  storm,  tree,  mountain, 
and  sea,  the  whole  spirit  of  Italian  landscape  lives  in 
Shelley's  verse — "I  depend  on  these  things  for  life,  for 
in  the  smoke  of  cities  and  the  tumult  of  human  kind  and 
the  chilling  fogs  of  our  own  country  I  can  scarcely  be  said 
to  live."  He  seldom  composed  within  four  walls,  but 
found  his  inspiration  on  some  solitary  hillside,  within  some 
garden  pergola,  on  a  house-top  terrace,  or  in  a  boat  upon 
the  waves.  The  Shelley  lover  is  constrained  to  follow  in 
his  footsteps;  he  longs  to  stroll  through  the  lanes  about 
Leghorn  where  Shelley  heard  the  skylark  sing ;  to  plunge 
into  the  Pisan  Pineta  whose  very  atmosphere  breathes  in 
"A  Recollection  ";  to  wander  among  the  ruins  of  the  Baths 
of  Caracalla  and  to  conjure  there  the  elfin  figure  perched 

[XV] 


INTRODUCTION 

on  high  while  creating  a  new  Prometheus ;  to  explore  that 
"  divine  bay "  of  Lerici  where  the  brilliant  dreams  and 
poetic  visions  of  a  new  and  regenerated  humanity  were  so 
soon  to  come  to  a  fatal  close.  A  strange,  wandering  life  it 
was  that  he  led  those  four  years,  "  yoked  to  all  sorts  of 
miseries  and  discomforts,"  especially  during  its  early  period. 
Yet  never  did  these  stifle  the  high  thoughts  and  continual 
literary  production.  "  A  Passage  of  the  Apennines/'  his 
first  Italian  poem,  was  written  at  a  little  inn  among  the 
mountains,  in  the  midst  of  a  wild  landscape  not  far  from 
Bologna  where  he  passed  but  a  single  night ;  the  ''  Lines 
"Written  among  the  Euganean  Hills  "  are  full  of  local  color. 
From  the  summer-house  where  he  loved  to  write,  in  the 
garden  of  their  own  villa  near  Este  he  could  himself  see, 

Spread  like  a  greeu  sea 
The  waveless  plaiu  of  Lombardy; 
Bounded  by  the  vaporous  air. 
Islanded  by  cities  fair. 

At  this  time  also  he  was  meditating  on  different  subjects 
as  a  groundwork  of  a  lyrical  drama,  "  having  taken  the 
resolution  to  see  what  kind  of  tragedy  a  person  without 
dramatic  talent  could  write."  "  The  Madness  of  Tasso  " 
was  undertaken,  but  only  one  short  scene  and  an  unfinished 
song  are  extant ;  the  "  Prometheus  Unbound  "  was  begun 
and  the  first  act  nearly  completed  in  the  same  congenial 
atmosphere. 

This  radiant  time  of  Summer  and  sunshine  seems  to 
have  been  followed  by  days  of  deep  depression.  The  "Lines 
Written  in  Dejection  near  Naples"  express  his  habitual 
mood  during  his  stay  in  that  city  the  following  Winter. 

[xvi] 


INTRODUCTION 

However,  red-letter  days  were  not  lacking ;  the  impressions 
made  by  Baise,  Vesuvius,  and  Pompeii  are  recorded  not 
only  in  charming  letters  but  in  the  magnificent  "  Ode  to 
Naples/^  written  two  years  later.  Has  Pompeii's  peculiar 
power  over  the  imagination  ever  been  more  exactly  as  well 
as  poetically  expressed  than  in  these  lines  ?  — 

I  stood  witbiii  the  city  disinterred, 
And  lieard  the  autumnal  leaves  like  light  footfalls 
Of  spirits  passing  through  the  streets  ;  and  heard 
The  mountain's  slumberous  voice  at  intervals 
ThriU  through  those  roofless  halls. 

Or  has  the  spirit  of  the  Bay  of  Naples  been  seized  more 
happily  than  in  the  lines  ?  — 

Where  the  Baian  ocean 
"Welters  with  air-Uke  motion, 
Within,  above,  around  its  bowers  of  starry  green. 
Moving  the  sea-flowers  in  those  purple  caves. 

The  most  important  year  in  Shelley's  life,  however,  was 
his  second  year  in  Italy.  Then,  in  the  midst  of  an  always 
changing,  usually  ailing,  often  sorrowful  and  distracted 
existence,  he  produced  those  two  masterpieces,  —  so  great 
yet  so  different,  —  "  Prometheus  Unbound  "  and  "  The 
Cenci " ;  several  political  and  satirical  poems,  including 
"The  Masque  of  Anarchy"  and  "  Peter  Bell  the  Third"; 
a  long  list  of  lyrics,  including  the  matchless  "  Ode  to  the 
West  Wind,-"  the  "  Ode  to  Heaven,''  and  the  impassioned 
"Indian  Serenade."  In  some  cases  we  know  the  exact 
circumstances  and  hour  that  kindled  the  poetic  fire.  "  The 
bright  blue  sky  of  Rome  and  the  effect  of  the  vigorous 
awakening  of  Spring  in  that  divinest  climate,  and  the  new 
[xvii] 


INTRODUCTION 

life  with  which  it  drenches  the  spirit  even  to  intoxication 
were  the  inspiration  of  this  drama/'  he  tells  us  in  the  preface 
of  "Prometheus  Unbound ''';  during  a  walk  in  the  Cascine 
near  Florence  he  conceived  and  wrote  that  "  Ode  to  the 
West  Wind,"  which,  as  a  lyric,  has  not  been  excelled  in 
English  poetrj.  The  galleries  of  Florence  filled  him  with 
delight,  and  one  picture  at  least  —  "The  Medusa"  —  in- 
spired a  poem.  Sculpture  he  enjoyed  especially,  and  would 
sit  for  hours  before  the  "  Niobe  "  or  some  favorite  Apollo. 
"  What  would  we  think,"  he  wrote,  "  if  we  were  forbidden 
to  read  the  great  writers  who  have  left  us  their  works  ? 
And  yet,  to  be  forbidden  to  live  at  Florence  or  Rome  is  an 
evil  of  the  same  kind  and  hardly  of  less  magnitude." 

But  it  was  neither  air,  nor  scenery,  nor  works  of  art 
that  led  to  Shelley's  most  intense,  though  not  his  longest- 
lived,  poetic  fervor;  it  was  his  introduction  to  a  beautiful 
and  accomplished  Italian  girl,  Emilia  Yiviani,  imprisoned 
by  a  fatlier  and  a  jealous  stepmother  in  the  miserable 
Convent  of  St.  Anna,  near  Pisa,  until  such  time  as  a  hus- 
band could  be  found  who  would  take  her  without  a  dowry. 
She  had  already  been  a  prisoner  for  two  years  when  the 
Shelleys  were  taken  by  a  friend  to  see  her.  Shelley  was  a 
born  knight-errant ;  he  could  never  see  or  hear  of  a  wrong 
without  an  instant  rush  to  right  it,  regardless  of  conse- 
quence. And  what  more  compelling  circumstances  than 
these  —  the  persecution  of  a  being  so  innocent,  so  beauti- 
ful, so  spiritual,  so  exalted  ?  Plans,  correspondence,  visits, 
presents,  greetings  of  one  kind  or  another  crowded  every 
hour  of  the  day ;  but  the  practical  difficulties  of  releasing 
the  imprisoned  maiden  proved  so  great  that  in  the  end 
[xviii] 


INTRODUCTION 

Emilia  had  to  beg  the  Shelleys  to  come  to  her  no  more,  as 
her  condition  was  only  made  more  unbearable  thereby. 
But  nothing  could  silence  or  abate  the  ideaKzing  power  of 
Shelley^s  imagination,  and  Emiha  Viviani  now  stood  in  his 
mind  as  an  image  of  all  that  was  lovely  in  womankind.  He 
had  always  been  fully  in  sympatliy  "odtli  Plato^s  doctrine  of 
man  as  a  divided  human  being  whom  Love  impels  to  seek 
his  severed  half  of  self  throughout  his  mortal  life.  He  had 
translated  Plato^s  "  Symposium "  and  followed  it  by  be- 
ginning in  prose  "  A  Discourse  on  the  Manners  of  the 
Ancients  Relating  to  the  Subject  of  Love.'''  This  was 
never  finished,  perhaps  because  he  did  not  find  it  easy  to 
handle  so  delicate  a  matter  in  prose.  The  poem  "  To  His 
Genius  "  is  also  a  partial  explanation  of  the  long  poem  now 
addressed  to  Emilia  called  "  Epipsychidion "  —  a  word 
coined  by  Shelley  from  the  Greek,  which  Stopford  Brooke 
suggests  is  to  be  translated  by  the  line,  "  Whither  't  was 
fled  this  soul  out  of  my  soul." 

But  no  amount  of  explanation  or  comment  could  re- 
veal the  inner  spirit  of  the  poem  to  the  world  at  large,  nor 
did  Shelley  expect  that  it  would.  He  sent  it  to  the  pub- 
lisher, ordering  only  one  hundred  copies  to  be  printed, 
saying  it  was  only  for  the  esoteric  few,  that  indeed  in  a 
certain  sense  it  was  a  "production  of  a  portion  of  me 
already  dead"  and  "it  would  give  me  no  pleasure  that  the 
vulgar  should  read  it." 

Time,  which  rights  so  many  things,  has  now  set  "  Epip- 
sychidion  "  in  its  right  place  —  alone  in  English  poetry, 
but  alongside  of  Dante's  "  Yita  Nuova,"  as  a  poem  touch- 
ing with  supreme  art  on  the  ideal  forms  of  a  passionate 

[xix] 


INTRODUCTION 

love.  Emilia,  like  Beatrice,  is  less  a  mortal  woman  than  a 
figure  standing  as  a  representative  of  the  poet's  vision  of 
her  who  is  his  second  soul,  the  earthly  embodiment  of  all 
his  ideals  of  Love  and  Beauty  and  Knowledge  and  Truth. 
No  other  English  poet  could  have  written  it,  and  perhaps 
none  will  ever  attempt  another  like  it.  As  an  idealized 
history  of  Shelley^s  inner  life  it  is  priceless.  The  motive 
of  "  Epipsychidion,''  and  even  its  first  draft,  existed  before 
the  meeting  of  Shelley  and  Emilia ;  that  meeting  simply 
furnished  the  final  impulse  to  complete  the  poem.  It  is 
well  that  circumstances  finally  combined  to  give  to  us  this 
late  and  full  expression  of  an  underlying  principle,  held 
throughout  Shelley's  life,  which,  however,  both  then  and 
for  many  years  after  his  death,  subjected  him  to  much  mis- 
understanding by  the  world  at  large. 

As  to  conduct  and  character,  certainly  the  same  stand- 
ards of  morality  should  prevail  for  all  members  of  society ; 
the  poet  must  be  counted  amenable  to  the  same  laws  as  the 
hod-carrier.  But  also  let  it  be  granted  that  as  to  thought 
and  feeling  great  differences  exist  between  these  types  of 
men;  spheres  shut  out  from  the  hod-carrier  are  open  to 
the  poet.  It  is  this  that  makes  him  a  poet;  and  even  he 
cannot  live  for  any  long  period  in  the  rarefied  air  of  a 
visionary  world  where  the  very  act  of  expression  serves  to 
exorcise  and  banish  the  image.  This  Shelley  himself 
acknowledges  in  the  closing  lines : 

Woe  is  me ! 
The  winged  words  on  which  my  soul  would  pierce 
Into  the  heights  of  love's  rare  universe 
Are  chains  of  lead  around  its  flight  of  fire. 
I  pant,  I  siuk,  I  tremble,  I  expire  ! 


INTRODUCTION 

The  Bay  of  Lerici,  which  gives  its  name  to  one  poem 
and  was  the  inspiration  of  several  others,  was  Shelley's  last 
home. 

"  The  blue  extent  of  the  waters,  the  almost  land-locked  bay,  the 
near  castle  of  Lerici  shutting  it  in  to  the  east  and  distant  Porto 
Venere  to  the  west ;  the  varied  forms  of  the  precipitous  rocks  that 
bound  in  the  beach;  .  .  .  the  tideless  sea  leaving  no  sands  nor 
shingle, ...  a  picture  such  as  one  sees  in  Salvator  Rosa's  landscapes 
only"- 

are  portions  of  Mary  Shelley's  descriptions  of  the  place,  as 
true  to-day  as  when  they  were  written.  Here  were  passed 
Shelley's  happiest  days ;  here,  almost  for  the  first  time,  he 
had  something  like  health  and  serenity  of  spirits.  The 
poem  now  begun  —  "  The  Triumph  of  Life  "  —  is  the  ex- 
pression of  the  attitude  of  mind  which  he  had  now  attained 
—  of  peace  achieved  through  passion,  of  insight  gained 
through  suffering  and  through  error.  Its  opening  lines, 
with  its  magnificent  picture  of  sunrise  and  himself  in  wak- 
ing vision 

Beneath  the  hoary  stem 

Which  an  old  chestnut  flung  athwart  the  steep 

Of  a  green  Apennine, 

embalm  the  very  spirit  of  the  Italy  which  was  so  dear  to 
Shelley's  heart  and  so  mighty  a  power  in  his  life.  Frag- 
ment as  it  is,  it  is  yet  a  poem  full  of  ethical  and  spiritual 
import.     It  breaks  off  suddenly  with  the  line, 

"  « Then,  wliat  is  Life  ?  '  I  cried." 

But  this  question  was  to  have  no  answer  from  Shelley.  A 
sudden  storm  at  sea  capsized  the  boat  in  which  he  and  his 
friend  were  sailing,  and  both  were  drowned  almost  within 

[xxi] 


INTRODUCTION 

sight  of  their  own  home.  Many  days  later  both  bodies 
were  washed  ashore  near  Yiareggio.  They  were  buried  in 
sand  on  the  beach.  The  harrowing  details  of  the  identifi- 
cation of  the  two  bodies^  their  removal  from  the  temporary 
graves  and  their  burning  on  the  shore  a  month  later,  the 
suspense  suffered  by  the  two  widowed  women  in  the  lonely 
Casa  Magni  during  the  days  when  they  hoped  against  hope 
and  drove  frantically  from  place  to  place  along  the  shore 
hoping  for  tidings  of  the  missing  boat — are  the  distressing 
but  well-known  chapters  that  close  the  record  of  the  Shelley 
household  in  Italy.  Viareggio  keeps  his  memory  green  by 
a  monument  erected  in  1894  in  its  principal  square,  the 
work  of  an  Italian  sculptor.  Here,  each  year,  celebrations 
are  held  and  laurel  wreaths  are  placed,  with  speeches  and 
poems  by  Italy's  most  illustrious  speakers  and  writers. 

The  "  lyrical  cry  "  in  Shelley's  verse  appeals  particularly 
to  the  Italian  nature;  his  prophecies  of  a  Golden  Age  are 
eagerly  read,  and  the  country  which  received  England's 
exiled  poet  will  always  claim  him  as  in  part  her  very 
own. 

Not  alone  in  his  poems  is  Italy  celebrated  by  Shelley ; 
his  letters  are  full  of  descriptions  of  places  and  people  and 
things  which  one  would  not  willingly  miss  to-day,  which 
are,  indeed,  all  the  more  valuable  to-day  because  of  the 
clianges  wrought  in  the  passage  of  nearly  one  hundred 
years.  Shelley's  judgment  in  some  matters  was  partial, 
in  some  entirely  wrong;  his  weakness  as  an  art  critic  is 
apparent  at  times  even  to  the  amateur.  But  all  such  allow- 
ances being  made,  it  cannot  be  otherwise  than  inspiring  to 
walk  hand  in  hand  with  Shelley,  seeing  Italy  with  his  eyes, 
[xxiij 


INTRODUCTION 

and  hearing  the  message  it  spoke  to  his  sympathetic  heart 
and  poetic  spirit. 

A  quarter  of  a  century  ago  one  of  Shelley^s  most  sympa- 
thetic editors^  declared  the  only  serious  obstacles  to  the 
general  comprehension  of  Shelley  to  be  "  his  erudition  and 
the  Italian  atmosphere  which  envelops  much  of  his  poetry/^ 
Since  that  time  much  textual  criticism,  many  biographies, 
and  no  end  of  annotated  editions  have  been  offered  in  eluci- 
dation of  obscurities  or  learned  allusions.  But  no  attempt 
has  been  made  to  set  the  poems  in  their  original  environ- 
ment, or  to  conduct  the  reader  himself  into  that  very  Italian 
atmosphere  where  they  were  born.  To  do  this  as  far  as 
may  be  possible,  through  illustration  and  the  grouping  of 
letters  and  passages  from  note-books  loith  the  poems,  so 
that  the  poems  may  be  seen  in  the  making,  so  to  speak,  is 
the  object  of  the  present  volume. 

A.  B.  McM. 
Spezia,  Italy,  1905. 

*  Richard  Garnett. 


[xxiii] 


THE   YEAR  1818 


A  MONG  the  Apennines 
"^of  Tuscany. 


"  The  Jpennine  in  the  Ikfht  of  day 
Is  a  mighty  mountain  dim  and  yrey.'''' 

—  Passage  of  The  Apennines,  p.  5. 


WITH  SHELLEY  IN  ITALY 

THE   YEAR  1818 

BAGNI  DI  LUCCA;  ESTE ;  NAPLES 

INTRODUCTORY 

jr\ROJCEN  in  health  and  spirits  and  warned  by  his 
m~^  physician  against  the  excitement  of  literary  com- 
position, without  a  settled  abode,  and  travelling 
from  place  to  place  encumbered  with  a  helpless  party  of 
women,  children,  and  servants,  and,  moreover,  engaged  in 
that  most  depressing  of  all  occupations,  house-hunting, 
we  sliould  hardly  lool^  for  numerous  or  impoHajxt  poetical 
creations  as  the  immediate  result  of  Slielleys  arrival  in 
Italy.  And  though  in  truth  the  list  is  not  long,  it  shows 
at  once  the  impress  of  the  new  scenes  and  experiences,  the 
strong  impidse  given  by  the  ideality  of  Italy.  Both 
Shelley  and  his  wife,  Mary  Shelley,  zaere  enthusiastic 
travellers,  and  the  hardships  were  quite  obscured  by  the 
delights  of  thisfrst  summer  in  Tuscany.  Travelling  by 
carriage  over  winding  roads  among  the  Apennines,  climb- 
ing on  foot  or  oii  horseback  their  wooded  jjeaJcs,  exploring 
in  small  boats  many  a  river  and  stream,  —  these  things 
were  sure  to  appeal  to  a  poet  whose  chief  delight  always 
had  been  the  contemplation  of  nature.      To  him,  Nature 

[3] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

was  no  dead  things  hut  a  living  spirit ;  to  Mm,  every 
natural  phenomenon  was  some  form  of  the  utterance  of 
this  spirit.  Stich  a  poem  as  "  The  Cloiul "  shows  the 
Slielley  attitude  tozvard  nature,  and  is  perhaps  its  most 
exquisitely  wrought  out  example.  But  all  of  these  early 
Italia?!  poems  breathe  more  or  less  of  the  same  spirit ;  they 
are  mostly  poems  of  pure  nature.  The  only  one  in 
which  human  life  plays  any  important  part  is  "  Julian 
and  Maddalo,''''  written  late  in  the  year  and  as  the  result 
of  a  visit  to  Lord  Byron  in  Venice. 

"  Rosalind  and  Helen,'''  thrown  aside  in  England  hut 
hrought  along  in  an  uTifinished  state,  was  found  hy  Mrs. 
Shelley  among  the  papers,  and  at  her  urgency  fnished. 
SJielley  himself  said  of  it,  "  /  lay  no  stress  on  it  o?ie 
zvay  or  the  other.""'  Considered  as  a  whole,  the  world 
perhaps  shares  Shelley's  opinion,  hut  there  are  some  pas- 
sages which  must  he  rescued  from  this  general  indiffer- 
ence for  their  charming  pictures  of  the  Italian  landscape. 
The  scene  is  laid  on  the  shores  of  Lalce  Como,  in  whose 
^^ divine  solitude'"  Shelley  had  vainly  tried  to  find  a 
home;  and  its  pictures  of  the  ^^ forest's  sol'itude,"  the 
"  chestnut  woods,"  and  "  lawny  dells,"  hear  plainly  the 
impress  of  Bagni  di  Lucca,  where  the  discarded  poem 
was  talien  up  and  finished. 

Este,  their  second  home,  has  its  poet  laureate  in  the 
"  Lines  Written  among  the  Euganean  Hills,"  while  the 
letters  of  this  time,  glowing  with  the  freshness  of  first 
impressions,  are  scarcely  less  poetical  than  the  verses. 
Often,  indeed,  the  letters  furnish  the  precise  setting  and 
conditions  zvhich  led  to  the  poetical  inspiration,  and  are 

[4] 


THE   YEAR   1818 

glimpses  into  the  poefs  inmr  mind,  rough  draughts  of  the 
poem,  as  it  were.  They  conjii-m  what,  indeed,  we  should 
divine  zvithout  them,  that  the  poems  of  this  year  were 
xvrittenfor  their  own  sake  and  to  express  Shelley's  pure 
Joy  in  that  living  spirit  zvhich  he  conceived  Nature  to  be. 
In  a  time  like  our  ozon,  lohen  the  interest  in  scientific 
theories  concerning  the  processes  of  nature  is  so  absorb- 
ing, all  the  more  zoelcome  is  a  voice  like  Shelley's  to 
speak  of  the  spiritual  side,  the  side  seen  by  the  artist  and 
lover  of  Nature  for  her  ozvn  sake. 


PASSAGE   OF   THE   APENNINES 

Listen,  listen,  Mary  mine, 
To  the  whisper  of  tlie  Apennine, 
It  bursts  on  the  roof  like  the  thunder's  roar, 
Or  like  the  sea  on  a  northern  shore. 
Heard  in  its  raging  ebb  and  flow 
By  the  captives  pent  in  the  cave  below. 
The  Apennine  in  the  light  of  day 
Is  a  mighty  mountain  dim  and  grey, 
Which  between  the  earth  and  sky  doth  lay ; 
But  when  night  comes,  a  chaos  dread 
On  the  dim  starlight  then  is  spread, 
And  the  Apennine  walks  abroad  with  the  storm. 
May  4,  I8I8.1 

1  Note  that  this,  Shelley's  first  poem  in  Italy,  was  inspired  by  his  delight 
in  storm  and  tempest.  For  other  instances,  see  "  Revolt  of  Islam,"  Books 
I  and  XI,  the  poetical  "  Letter  to  Maria  Gisborne,"  the  "  Vision  of  the 
Sea,"  the  opening  lines  of  "Ode  to  the  West  Wind."  — Ed. 

[5] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN  ITALY 

Milan,  April,  1818. 
My  dear  Peacock  ^ :  .  .  .  We  have  been  to  Como, 
looking  for  a  house.  This  lake  exceeds  any  thing  I  ever 
beheld  in  beauty,  with  the  exception  of  the  arbutus  islands 
of  Killarney.  It  is  long  and  narrow,  and  has  the  appear- 
ance of  a  mighty  river  winding  among  the  mountains  and 
the  forests.  We  sailed  from  the  town  of  Como  to  a  tract  of 
country  called  the  Tremezina,  and  saw  the  various  aspects 
presented  by  that  part  of  the  lake.  The  mountains  be- 
tween Como  and  that  village,  or  rather  cluster  of  villages, 
are  covered  on  high  with  chestnut  forests  (the  eating  chest- 
nuts, on  which  the  inhabitants  of  the  country  subsist  in 
time  of  scarcity),  which  sometimes  descend  to  the  very 
verge  of  the  lake,  overhanging  it  with  their  hoary  branches. 
But  usually  the  immediate  border  of  this  shore  is  com- 
posed of  laurel-trees,  and  bay,  and  myrtle,  and  wild-fig 
trees,  and  olives,  which  grow  in  the  crevices  of  the  rocks, 
and  overhang  the  caverns,  and  shadow  the  deep  glens, 
which  are  filled  with  the  flashing  light  of  the  waterfalls. 
Other  flowering  shrubs,  whicli  I  cannot  name,  grow  there 
also.  On  high,  the  towers  of  village  churches  are  seen 
white  among  the  dark  forests.  Beyond,  on  the  opposite 
shore,  whicli  faces  the  south,  the  mountains  descend  less 
precipitously  to  the  lake,  and  although  they  are  much  higher, 
and  some  covered  with  perpetual  snow,  there  intervenes 
between  them  and  the  lake  a  range  of  lower  hills,  which 

1  Thomas  Love  Peacock  (1785-1866),  novelist  and  poet  of  some  dis- 
tinction in  his  time.  He  was  the  warm  friend  of  Shelley  and  his  constant 
correspondent  aftei*  his  departure  from  England.  Unless  otherwise  stated, 
all  the  letters  in  this  collection  were  addi-cssed  to  Mr.  Peacock  in  London. 

[6] 


o 


THE   YEAR   1818 

have  glens  and  rifts  opening  to  the  other,  such  as  I  shouki 
fancy  the  abi/sses  of  Ida  or  Parnassus.  Here  are  planta- 
tions of  olive,  and  orange,  and  lemon  trees,  which  are  now 
so  loaded  with  fruit,  that  there  is  more  fruit  than  leaves, 
—  and  vineyards.  This  shore  of  the  lake  is  one  continued 
village,  and  the  Milanese  nobility  have  their  villas  here. 
The  union  of  culture  and  the  untameable  profusion  and 
loveliness  of  nature  is  here  so  close,  that  the  line  where 
they  are  divided  can  hardly  be  discovered.  But  the  finest 
scenery  is  that  of  the  Yilla  Pliniana  ;  so  called  from  a 
fountain  which  ebbs  and  flows  every  three  hours,  described 
by  the  younger  Pliny,  which  is  in  the  court-yard.  This 
house,  which  was  once  a  magnificent  palace,  and  is  now 
half  in  ruins,  we  are  endeavouring  to  procure.  It  is  built 
upon  terraces  raised  from  the  bottom  of  the  lake,  together 
with  its  garden,  at  the  foot  of  a  semicircular  precipice, 
overshadowed  by  profound  forests  of  chestnut.  The  scene 
from  the  colonnade  is  the  most  extraordinary,  at  once,  and 
the  most  lovely  that  eye  ever  beheld.  On  one  side  is  the 
mountain,  and  immediately  over  you  are  clusters  of  cypress- 
trees  of  an  astonishing  height,  which  seem  to  pierce  the 
sky.  Above  you,  from  among  the  clouds,  as  it  were,  de- 
scends a  waterfall  of  immense  size,  broken  by  the  woody 
rocks  into  a  thousand  channels  to  the  lake.  On  the  other 
side  is  seen  the  blue  extent  of  the  lake  and  the  mountains, 
speckled  with  sails  and  spires.  The  apartments  of  the 
Pliniana  are  immensely  large,  but  ill  furnished  and  antique. 
The  terraces,  which  overlook  the  lake,  and  conduct  under 
the  shade  of  such  immense  laurel-trees  as  deserve  the 
epithet  of  Pythian,  are  most  delightful.     "We  stayed  at 

[7] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN  ITALY 

Como  two  days,  and  have  now  returned  to  Milan,  waiting 
the  issue  of  our  negotiation  about  a  house.  Como  is  only 
six  leagues  from  Milan,  and  its  mountains  are  seen  from 
the  cathedral. 

This  cathedral  [Milan]  is  a  most  astonishing  work  of 
art.  It  is  built  of  white  marble,  and  cut  into  pinnacles  of 
immense  height,  and  the  utmost  delicacy  of  workmanship, 
and  loaded  with  sculpture.  The  effect  of  it,  piercing  the 
solid  blue  with  those  groups  of  dazzling  spires,  relieved  by 
the  serene  depth  of  this  Italian  heaven,  or  by  moonlight 
when  the  stars  seem  gathered  among  those  clustered  shapes, 
is  beyond  anything  I  had  imagined  architecture  capable  of 
producing.  The  interior,  though  very  sublime,  is  of  a 
more  earthly  character,  and  with  its  stained  glass  and 
massy  granite  columns  overloaded  with  antique  figures,  and 
the  silver  lamps,  that  burn  for  ever  under  the  canopy  of 
black  cloth  beside  the  brazen  altar  and  the  marble  fretwork 
of  the  dome,  give  it  the  aspect  of  some  gorgeous  sepulchre. 
There  is  one  solitary  spot  among  those  aisles,  behind  the 
altar,  where  the  light  of  day  is  dim  and  yellow  under  the 
storied  window,  which  I  have  chosen  to  visit,  and  read 
Dante  there. 

I  have  devoted  this  summer,  and  indeed  the  next  year, 
to  the  composition  of  a  tragedy  on  the  subject  of  Tasso^s 
madness,  which  I  find  upon  inspection  is,  if  properly 
treated,  admirably  dramatic  and  poetical.  But  you  will 
say  I  have  no  dramatic  talent.  Very  true  in  a  cer- 
tain sense;  but  I  have  taken  the  resolution  to  see  what 
kind  of  tragedy  a  person  without  dramatic  talent  could 
write. 

[8] 


c 


ATllEDllAL  at  Milan. 
Interior. 


*'  There  is  one  solitary  spot  amom/  those  aisles,  behind  the  altar, 
where  the  light  of  day  is  dim  and  yellow  under  the  storied  window 
which  I  have  chosen  to  visit,  and  read  Dante  there." 

—  Letter  from  Milan,  p.  8. 


THE   YEAR   1818 

Leghorn,  June  5,  1818. 

We  left  Milan  on  the  first  of  May,  and  travelled  across 
the  Apennines  to  Pisa.  This  part  of  the  Apennine  is  far  less 
beautiful  than  the  Alps  ;  the  mountains  are  wide  and  wild, 
and  the  whole  scenery  broad  and  undetermined  —  the  im- 
agination cannot  find  a  home  in  it.  The  plain  of  the 
Milanese,  and  that  of  Parma,  is  exquisitely  beautiful  —  it 
is  like  one  garden,  or  rather  cultivated  wilderness  ;  because 
the  corn  and  the  meadow-grass  grow  under  high  and  thick 
trees,  festooned  to  one  another  by  regular  festoons  of  vines. 
On  the  seventh  day  we  arrived  at  Pisa,  where  we  remained 
three  or  four  days.  A  large  disagreeable  city,  almost  with- 
out inhabitants.  We  then  proceeded  to  this  great  trading 
town,  where  we  have  remained  a  month,  and  which,  in  a 
few  days,  we  leave  for  the  Bagni  di  Lucca,  a  kind  of 
watering-place  situated  in  the  depth  of  the  Apennines ;  the 
scenery  surrounding  this  village  is  very  fine. 

TO  MR.   AND  MES.   GISBORNE 
(Leghoen) 

Bagni  di  Lucca,  July  10,  1818. 

We  have  ridden,  Mary  and   I,  once  only,  to  a   place 

called  Prato  Piorito,!  on  the  top  of  the  mountains:  the 

1  Prato  Fiorito  (Flowering  Meadow)  is  still  a  favorite  excursion  from 
Bagni  di  Lucca.     On  the  occasion  of  Shelley's  visit  the  jonquils    were 
blooming  in  such  abundance  that  their  odor  almost  caused  him  to  faint. 
In  "  Epipsychidion  "  occurs  a  reminiscence  of  this  experience  :  — 
"  And  from  the  moss  violets  and  jonquils  peep, 
And  dart  their  arrowy  odour  through  the  brain 
Till  you  might  faint  with  that  delicious  pain." 

[9] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN   ITALY 

road,  winding  through  forests,  and  over  torrents,  and  on 
the  verge  of  green  ravines,  affords  scenery  magnificently 
fine.  I  cannot  describe  it  to  you,  but  bid  you,  tnough 
vainly,  come  and  see.  I  take  great  delight  in  watching 
the  changes  of  the  atmosphere  here,  and  the  growth  of 
the  thunder  showers  with  which  the  noon  is  often  over- 
shadowed, and  which  break  and  fade  away  towards  even- 
ing into  flocks  of  delicate  clouds.  Our  fire-flies  are  fading 
away  fast;  but  there  is  the  planet  Jupiter,  who  rises  majes- 
tically over  the  rift  in  the  forest-covered  mountains  to  the 
south,  and  the  pale  Summer  lightning  which  is  spread  out 
every  night,  at  intervals,  over  the  sky.  No  doubt  Provi- 
dence has  contrived  these  things,  that,  when  the  fire-flies 
go  out,  the  low-flying  owl  may  see  her  way  home. 

FROM   "ROSALIND   AND   HELEN  ^' 
Scene,  the  Shore  of  the  Lake  of  Gomo 

HELEN 

Come  hither,  my  sweet  Rosalind. 
'T  is  long  since  thou  and  I  have  met ; 
And  yet  methinks  it  were  unkind 
Those  moments  to  forget. 
Come  sit  by  me.     I  see  thee  stand 
By  this  lone  lake,  in  this  far  land, 
Thy  loose  hair  in  the  light  wind  flying, 
Thy  sweet  voice  to  each  tone  of  even 
United,  and  thine  eyes  replying 
To  the  hues  of  yon  fair  heaven. 
Come,  gentle  friend  :  wilt  sit  by  me  ? 
[10] 


2  V. 


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1 

THE   YEAR   1818 

And  be  as  thou  wert  wout  to  be 

Ere  we  were  disunited  ? 

None  doth  behold  us  now  :  the  power 

That  led  us  forth  at  this  lone  hour 

Will  be  but  ill  requited 

If  thou  depart  in  scorn  :  oh  !  come^ 

And  talk  of  our  abandoned  home. 

Remember,  this  is  Italy, 

And  we  are  exiles.     Talk  with  me 

Of  that  our  land,  whose  wilds  and  floods, 

Barren  and  dark  although  they  be, 

"Were  dearer  than  these  chestnut  woods : 

Those  heathy  paths,  that  inland  stream. 

And  the  blue  mountains,  shapes  which  seem 

Lite  wrecks  of  childhood^s  sunny  dream  : 

Which  that  we  have  abandoned  now. 

Weighs  on  the  heart  like  that  remorse 

Which  altered  friendship  leaves. 

It  was  a  vast  and  antique  wood. 
Thro'  which  they  took  their  way ; 
And  the  grey  shades  of  evening 
O'er  that  green  wilderness  did  fling 
Still  deeper  solitude. 
Pursuing  still  the  path  that  wound 
The  vast  and  knotted  trees  around 
Thro'  which  slow  shades  were  wandering, 
To  a  deep  lawny  dell  they  came, 
To  a  stone  seat  beside  a  spring. 
O'er  which  the  columned  wood  did  frame 
[11  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN  ITALY 

A  roofless  temple,  like  the  fane 
"Where,  ere  new  creeds  could  faith  obtain, 
Man's  early  race  once  knelt  beneath 
The  overhanging  deity. 
O'er  this  fair  fountain  hung  the  sky. 
Now  spangled  with  rare  stars.     The  snake, 
The  pale  snake,  that  with  eager  breath 
Creeps  here  his  noontide  thirst  to  slake. 
Is  beaming  with  many  a  mingled  hue. 
Shed  from  yon  dome's  eternal  blue, 
Wlien  he  floats  on  that  dark  and  lucid  flood 
In  the  light  of  his  own  loveliness ; 
And  the  birds  that  in  the  fountain  dip 
Their  plumes,  with  fearless  fellowship 
Above  and  round  him  wheel  and  hover. 
The  fitful  wind  is  heard  to  stir 
One  solitary  leaf  on  high ; 
The  chirping  of  the  grasshopper 
Pills  every  pause.     There  is  emotion 
In  all  that  dwells  at  noontide  here  : 
Then,  thro'  the  intricate  wild  wood, 
A  maze  of  life  and  light  and  motion 
Is  woven.     But  there  is  stillness  now  : 
Gloom,  and  the  trance  of  Nature  now  : 
The  snake  is  in  his  cave  asleep ; 
The  birds  are  on  the  branches  dreaming  : 
Only  the  shadows  creep  : 
Only  the  glow-worm  is  gleaming  : 
Only  the  owls  and  the  nightingales 
Wake  in  this  dell  when  daylight  fails, 
[12] 


THE   YEAR   1818 

And  grey  shades  gather  in  the  woods : 
And  the  owls  have  all  fled  far  away 
In  a  merrier  glen  to  hoot  and  play, 
For  the  moon  is  veiled  and  sleeping  now. 
The  accustomed  nightingale  still  broods 
On  her  accustomed  bough. 
But  she  is  mute ;  for  her  false  mate 
Has  fled  and  left  her  desolate. 

Daylight  on  its  last  purple  cloud 
Was  lingering  grey,  and  soon  her  strain 
The  nightingale  began ;  now  loud. 
Climbing  in  circles  the  windless  sky. 
Now  dying  music  ;  suddenly 
'Tis  scattered  in  a  thousand  notes, 
And  now  to  the  hushed  ear  it  floats 
Like  field  smells  known  in  infancy. 
Then  failing,  soothes  the  air  again. 

TO  MRS.   SHELLEY 
(Bagni  di  Lucca) 

Plorence,  August  20,  1818. 

As  we  approached  Florence,  the  country  became  culti- 
vated to  a  very  high  degree,  the  plain  was  filled  with  the 
most  beautiful  villas,  and,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach, 
the  mountains  were  covered  with  them ;  for  the  plains  are 
bounded  on  all  sides  by  blue  and  misty  mountains.  The 
vines  are  here  trailed  on  low  trellises  of  reeds,  interwoven 
[13] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN  ITALY 

into  crosses^  to  support  them,  and  the  grapes,  now  almost 
ripe,  are  exceedingly  abundant.  You  everywhere  meet 
those  teams  of  beautiful  white  oxen,  which  are  now  labour- 
ing the  little  vine-divided  fields  with  their  Yirgilian  ploughs 
and  carts.  Florence  itself,  that  is,  the  Lung'  Arno  (for  I 
have  seen  no  more),  I  think  is  the  most  beautiful  city  I 
have  yet  seen.  It  is  surrounded  with  cultivated  hills,  and 
from  the  bridge  which  crosses  the  broad  channel  of  the 
Arno,  the  view  is  the  most  animated  and  elegant  I  ever 
saw.  You  see  tliree  or  four  bridges,  one  apparently  sup- 
ported by  Corinthian  pillars,  and  the  white  sails  of  the 
boats,  relieved  by  the  deep  green  of  the  forest,  which  comes 
to  the  water's  edge,  and  the  sloping  hills  covered  with 
bright  villas  on  every  side.  Domes  and  steeples  rise  on 
all  sides,  and  the  cleanliness  is  remarkably  great.  On  the 
other  side  there  are  the  foldings  of  the  Yale  of  Arno 
above ;  first  the  hills  of  olive  and  vine,  then  the  chestnut 
woods,  and  then  the  blue  and  misty  pine  forests,  which 
invest  the  aerial  Apennines,  that  fade  in  the  distance.  I 
have  seldom  seen  a  city  so  lovely  at  first  sight  as 
Florence. 

FRAGMENT 

TO  MAEY  SHELLEY 

O  Mary  dear,  that  you  were  here 
With  your  brown  eyes  bright  and  clear. 
And  your  sweet  voice,  like  a  bird 
Singing  love  to  its  lone  mate 
In  the  ivy  bower  disconsolate ; 
Yoice  the  sweetest  ever  heard  1 
[14] 


in 


5    M 


'?^S 


>1 


# 


THE  YEAR   1818 

And  your  brow  more  .  .  . 

Than  the  sky 

Of  this  azure  Italy. 

Mary  dear^  come  to  me  soon, 

I  am  not  well  whilst  thou  art  far ; 

As  sunset  to  the  sphered  moon, 

As  twilight  to  the  western  star. 

Thou,  beloved,  art  to  me. 

0  Mary  dear,  that  you  were  here ; 
The  Castle  echo  whispers  "  Here  !  '*  ^ 
EsTE,  September,  1818. 

1  Compare  this  poem,  written  to  Mary  Shelley  during  the 
poet's  brief  absence  from  her  at  Este,  with  her  own  de- 
scription of  the  place,  which  soon  afterward  became  their 
home :  — 

"  The  villa  was  situated  on  the  very  overhanging  brow  of  a 
low  hill  at  the  foot  of  a  range  of  higher  ones.  ...  A  slight 
ravine,  with  a  road  in  its  depth,  divided  the  garden  from  the 
hni,  on  which  stood  the  ruins  of  the  ancient  castle  of  Este, 
whose  dark  massive  waU,  gave  forth  an  echo,  and  from  whose 
ruined  crevices  owls  and  bats  flitted  forth  at  night,  as  the 
crescent  moon  sunk  behind  the  black  and  heavy  battlements." 


[15] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 


LINES  WEITTEN   AMONG   THE  EUGANEAN 
HILLS  ^ 

October,  1818 

Many  a  green  isle  needs  must  be 
In  the  deep  wide  sea  of  misery, 
Or  the  mariner,  Avorn  and  wan, 
Never  thus  could  voyage  on 
Day  and  night,  and  night  and  day. 
Drifting  on  his  dreary  way. 
With  the  solid  darkness  black 
Closing  round  his  vesseFs  track; 
Whilst  above  the  sunless  sky. 
Big  with  clouds,  hangs  heavily. 
And  behind  the  tempest  fleet 
Harries  on  with  lightning  feet, 
Eiviug  sail,  and  cord,  and  plank, 
Till  the  ship  has  almost  drank 
Death  from  the  o'er-brimming  deep ; 
And  sinks  down,  down,  like  that  sleep 
When  the  dreamer  seems  to  be 
Weltering  through  eternity ; 
And  the  dim  low  line  before 
Of  a  dark  and  distant  shore 
Still  recedes,  as  ever  still, 

^  Written  after  a  day's  excursion  among  the  mountains  wtich  surround 
Arqua  — once  the  retreat  and  now  the  sepulchre  of  Petrarch.  —  Shelley's 
Note. 

[16] 


2i  > 


THE   YEAR  1818 

Longing  with  divided  will 

But  no  power  to  seek  or  shun, 

He  is  ever  drifted  on 

O'er  the  unreposing  wave 

To  the  haven  of  the  grave. 

What,  if  there  no  friends  will  greet ; 

What,  if  there  no  heart  will  meet 

His  with  love's  impatient  beat ; 

Wander  wheresoever  he  may. 

Can  he  dream  before  that  day 

To  find  refuge  from  distress 

In  friendship's  smile,  in  love's  caress  ? 

Then  't  will  wreak  him  little  woe 

Whether  such  there  be  or  no  : 

Senseless  is  the  breast,  and  cold. 

Which  relenting  love  would  fold ; 

Bloodless  are  the  veins  and  chill 

Which  the  pulse  of  paiii  did  fill ; 

Every  little  living  nerve 

That  from  bitter  words  did  swerve 

Round  the  tortured  lips  and  brow. 

Are  like  sapless  leaflets  now 

Frozen  upon  December's  bough. 

On  the  beach  of  a  northern  sea 
Which  tempests  shake  eternally. 
As  once  the  wretch  there  lay  to  sleep. 
Lies  a  solitary  heap. 
One  white  skull  and  seven  dry  bones, 
On  the  margin  of  the  stones, 
[17] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

Where  a  few  grey  rushes  stand. 

Boundaries  of  the  sea  and  Lind : 

Nor  is  heard  one  voice  of  wail 

But  the  sea-mews,  as  they  sail 

O'er  the  billows  of  the  gale ; 

Or  the  whirlwind  up  and  down 

Howling,  like  a. slaughtered  town. 

When  a  king  in  glory  rides 

Through  the  pomp  of  fratricides  : 

Those  unburied  bones  around 

There  is  many  a  mournful  sound; 

There  is  no  lament  for  him, 

Like  a  sunless  vapour,  dim, 

Who  once  clothed  with  life  and  thought 

What  now  moves  nor  murmurs  not. 

Ay,  many  flowering  islands  lie 
In  the  waters  of  wide  Agony  : 
To  such  a  one  this  morn  was  led 
My  bark,  by  soft  winds  piloted : 
^Mid  the  mountains  Euganean 
I  stood  listening  to  the  paean. 
With  which  the  legioned  rooks  did  hail 
The  sun's  uprise  majestical; 
Gathering  round  with  wings  all  hoar. 
Thro'  the  dewy  mist  they  soar 
Like  grey  shades,  till  the  eastern  heaven 
Bursts,  and  then,  as  clouds  of  even, 
Flecked  with  fire  and  azure,  lie 
In  the  unfathomable  sky, 
[18] 


THE   YEAR  1818 

So  their  plumes  of  purple  grain, 
Starred  with  drops  of  golden  rain. 
Gleam  above  the  sunlight  woods. 
As  in  silent  multitudes 
On  the  morning^s  fitful  gale 
Thro'  the  broken  mist  they  sail. 
And  the  vapours  cloven  and  gleaming 
Follow  down  the  dark  steep  streaming. 
Till  all  is  bright,  and  clear,  and  still, 
Eound  the  solitary  hill. 

Beneath  is  spread  like  a  green  sea 
The  waveless  plain  of  Lombardy, 
Bounded  by  the  vaporous  air. 
Islanded  by  cities  fair ; 
Underneath  day^s  azure  eyes 
Ocean^s  nursling,  Venice  lies, 
A  peopled  labyrinth  of  walls, 
Amphitrite^s  destined  halls. 
Which  her  hoary  sire  now  paves 
With  his  blue  and  beaming  waves. 
Lo  !  the  sun  upsprings  behind. 
Broad,  red,  radiant,  half  reclined 
On  the  level  quivering  line 
Of  the  waters  crystalline ; 
And  before  that  chasm  of  light. 
As  within  a  furnace  bright. 
Column,  tower,  and  dome,  and  spire. 
Shine  like  obelisks  of  fire. 
Pointing  with  inconstant  motion 
[19] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN  ITALY 

From  the  altar  of  dark  ocean 
To  the  sapphire-tinted  skies; 
As  the  flames  of  sacrifice 
From  the  marble  shrines  did  rise. 
As  to  pierce  the  dome  of  gold 
Where  Apollo  spoke  of  old. 

Sun-girt  City,  thou  hast  been 
Ocean's  child,  and  then  his  queen; 
Now  is  come  a  darker  day. 
And  thou  soon  must  be  his  prey, 
If  the  power  that  raised  thee  here 
Hallow  so  thy  watery  bier. 
A  less  drear  ruin  then  than  now, 
"With  thy  conquest-branded  brow 
Stooping  to  the  slave  of  slaves 
From  thy  throne,  among  the  waves 
Wilt  thou  be,  when  the  sea-mew 
Flies,  as  once  before  it  flew. 
O'er  thine  isles  depopulate,  ^ 
And  all  is  in  its  ancient  state. 
Save  where  many  a  palace  gate 
With  green  sea-flowers  overgrown 
Like  a  rock  of  ocean's  own. 
Topples  1  o'er  the  abandoned  sea 
As  the  tides  change  sullenly. 
The  fisher  on  his  watery  way. 
Wandering  at  the  close  of  day, 

1  This  serious  apprehension  of  the  gradual  sinking  of  Venice  has  become 
more  pronounced  since  the  crumbling  of  the  Campanile  in  1902.  —  Ed. 

[20] 


< 


o 
—    re 


THE   YEAR   1818 

"Will  spread  his  sail  and  seize  his  oar 
Till  he  pass  the  gloomy  shore, 
Lest  thy  dead  should,  from  their  sleep 
Bursting  o^er  the  starlight  deep. 
Lead  a  rapid  masque  of  death 
O'er  the  waters  of  his  path. 

Those  who  alone  thy  towers  behold 
Quivering  through  aerial  gold, 
As  I  now  behold  them  here. 
Would  imagine  not  they  were 
Sepulchres,  where  human  forms. 
Like  pollution-nourished  worms 
To  the  corpse  of  greatness  cling. 
Murdered,  and  now  mouldering : 
But  if  Freedom  should  awake 
In  her  omnipotence,  and  shake 
From  the  Celtic  Anarch's  hold 
All  the  keys  of  dungeons  cold. 
Where  a  hundred  cities  lie 
Chained  like  thee,  ingloriously. 
Thou  and  all  thy  sister  band 
Might  adorn  this  sunny  land. 
Twining  memories  of  old  time 
With  new  virtues  more  sublime; 
If  not,  perish  thou  and  they. 
Clouds  which  stain  truth's  rising  day 
By  her  sun  consumed  away, 
Earth  can  spare  ye  :  while  like  flowers. 
In  the  waste  of  years  and  hours, 
[21] 


WITH  SHELLEY  IN  ITALY 

From  your  dust  new  nations  spring 
With  more  kindly  blossoming. 

Perish  —  let  there  only  be 

Floating  o'er  thy  hearthless  sea 

As  the  garment  of  thy  sky 

Clothes  the  world  immortally, 

One  remembrance,  more  sublime 

Than  the  tattered  pall  of  time, 

Which  scarce  hides  thy  visage  wan;  — 

That  a  tempest-cleaving  Swan  ^ 

Of  the  songs  of  Albion, 

Driven  from  his  ancestral  streams 

By  the  might  of  evil  dreams, 

Found  a  nest  in  thee ;  and  Ocean 

Welcomed  him  with  such  emotion 

That  its  joy  grew  his,  and  sprung 

From  his  lips  like  music  flung 

O'er  a  mighty  thunder-fit 

Chastening  terror :  —  what  though  yet 

Poesy's  unfailing  Eiver, 

Which  thro'  Albion  winds  for  ever 

Lashing  with  melodious  wave 

Many  a  sacred  Poet's  grave. 

Mourn  its  latest  nursling  fled? 

What  though  thou  with  all  thy  dead 

Scarce  can  for  this  fame  repay 

Aught  thine  own  ?  oh,  rather  say 

Though  thy  sins  and  slaveries  foul 

^  Byron,  then  living  in  Venice.  —  Ed. 

[  22  ] 


THE   YEAR   1818 

Overcloud  a  sunlike  soul  ? 

As  the  ghost  of  Homer  clings 

Round  Scamander's  wasting  springs; 

As  divinest  Shakespere's  might 

Fills  Avon  and  the  world  with  light 

Like  omniscient  power  which  he 

Imaged  'mid  mortality; 

As  the  love  from  Petrarch's  urn, 

Yet  amid  yon  hills  doth  bum, 

A  quenchless  lamp  by  which  the  heart 

Sees  things  unearthly  ;  —  so  thou  art 

Mighty  spirit  —  so  shall  be 

The  City  that  did  refuge  thee. 

Lo,  the  sun  floats  up  the  sky 
Like  thought-winged  Liberty, 
Till  the  universal  light 
Seems  to  level  plain  and  height ; 
From  the  sea  a  mist  has  spread, 
And  the  beams  of  morn  lie  dead 
On  the  towers  of  Yenice  now, 
Like  its  glory  long  ago. 
By  the  skirts  of  that  grey  cloud 
Many-domed  Padua  proud 
Stands,  a  peopled  solitude, 
'Mid  the  harvest-shining  plain. 
Where  the  peasant  heaps  his  grain 
In  the  garner  of  his  foe. 
And  the  milk-white  oxen  slow 
With  the  purple  vintage  strain, 
[  23  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN  ITALY 

Heaped  upon  the  creaking  wain. 
That  the  brutal  Celt  may  swill 
Drunken  sleep  with  savage  will; 
And  the  sickle  to  the  sword 
Lies  unchanged,  though  many  a  lord, 
Like  a  weed  whose  shade  is  poison. 
Overgrows  this  region^s  foison, 
Sheaves  of  whom  are  ripe  to  come 
To  destruction's  harvest  home  : 
Men  must  reap  the  things  they  sow. 
Force  from  force  must  ever  flow. 
Or  worse ;  but  ^t  is  a  bitter  woe 
That  love  or  reason  cannot  change 
The  despot's  rage,  the  slave's  revenge. 

Padua,  thou  within  whose  walls 
Those  mute  guests  at  festivals. 
Son  and  Mother,  Death  and  Sin, 
Played  at  dice  for  Ezzelin, 
Till  Death  cried,  "  I  win,  I  win  ! " 
And  Sin  cursed  to  lose  the  wager. 
But  Death  promised,  to  assuage  her. 
That  he  would  petition  for 
Her  to  be  made  Vice-Emperor, 
Wlien  the  destined  years  were  o'er. 
Over  all  between  the  Po 
And  the  eastern  Alpine  snow. 
Under  the  mighty  Austrian. 
Sin  smiled  so  as  Sin  only  can. 
And  since  that  time,  ay,  long  before, 
[24] 


<  > 

2  <=! 

g    O' 


■^  ^  s 


THE   YEAR   1818 

Both  have  ruled  from  shore  to  shore. 
That  incestuous  pair^  who  follow 
Tyrants  as  the  sun  the  swallow, 
As  Repentance  follows  Crime, 
And  as  changes  follow  Time. 

In  thine  halls  the  lamp  of  learning, 
Padua,  now  no  more  is  burning; 
Like  a  meteor,  whose  wild  way 
Is  lost  over  the  grave  of  day. 
It  gleams  betrayed  and  to  betray : 
Once  remotest  nations  came 
To  adore  that  sacred  flame, 
Wlien  it  lit  not  many  a  hearth 
On  this  cold  and  gloomy  earth  : 
Now  new  fires  from  antique  light 
Spring  beneath  the  wide  world's  might ; 
But  their  spark  lies  dead  in  thee, 
Trampled  out  by  tyranny. 
As  the  Norway  woodman  quells. 
In  the  depths  of  piny  dells. 
One  light  flame  among  the  brakes. 
While  the  boundless  forest  shakes. 
And  its  mighty  trunks  are  torn 
By  the  fire  thus  lowly  born : 
The  spark  beneath  his  feet  is  dead, 
He  starts  to  see  the  flames  it  fed 
Howling  through  the  darkened  sky 
With  a  myriad  tongues  victoriously. 
And  sinks  down  in  fear :  so  thou, 
[25] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN   ITALY 

0  Tyranny,  beholdest  now 
Light  around  thee,  and  tliou  hearest 
The  loud  flames  ascend,  and  fearest : 
Grovel  on  the  earth ;  ay,  hide 
In  the  dust  thy  purple  pride  ! 

Noon  descends  around  me  now : 
'T  is  the  noon  of  autumn's  glow, 
When  a  soft  and  purple  mist 
Like  a  vaporous  amethyst. 
Or  an  air-dissolved  star 
Mingling  light  and  fragrance,  far 
From  the  curved  horizon's  bound 
To  the  point  of  heaven's  profound, 
Eills  the  overflowing  sky ; 
And  the  plains  that  silent  lie 
Underneath,  the  leaves  unsodden 
Where  the  infant  frost  has  trodden 
With  his  morning- winged  feet, 
Wliose  bright  print  is  gleaming  yet; 
And  the  red  and  golden  vines, 
Piercing  with  their  trellised  lines 
The  rough,  dark-skirted  wilderness ; 
The  dun  and  bladed  grass  no  less. 
Pointing  from  this  hoary  tower 
In  the  windless  air ;  the  flower 
Glimmering  at  my  feet ;  the  line 
Of  the  olive-sandalled  Apennine 
In  the  south  dimly  islanded ; 
And  the  Alps,  whose  snows  are  spread 
[26] 


THE   YEAR   1818 

High  between  the  clouds  and  sun ; 

And  of  living  things  each  one ; 

And  my  spirit  which  so  long 

Darkened  this  swift  stream  of  song, 

Interpenetrated  lie 

Bj  the  glory  of  the  sky : 

Be  it  love^  light,,  harmony. 

Odour,  or  the  soul  of  all 

Which  from  heaven  like  dew  dotli  fall. 

Or  the  mind  which  feeds  this  verse 

Peopling  the  lone  universe. 

Noon  descends,  and  after  noon 

Autumn's  evening  meets  me  soon. 

Leading  the  infantine  moon. 

And  that  one  star,  which  to  her 

Almost  seems  to  minister 

Half  the  crimson  light  she  brings 

Prom  the  sunset's  radiant  springs : 

And  the  soft  dreams  of  the  morn 

(Which  like  winged  winds  had  borne 

To  that  silent  isle,  which  lies 

'Mid  remembered  agonies. 

The  frail  bark  of  this  lone  being) 

Pass,  to  other  sufferers  fleeing. 

And  its  ancient  pilot,  Pain, 

Sits  beside  the  helm  again. 

Other  flowering  isles  must  be 
In  the  sea  of  life  and  agony  : 
Other  spirits  float  and  flee 
[27] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN  ITALY 

O'er  that  gulph :  even  now,  perhaps, 
On  some  rock  the  wild  wave  wraps. 
With  folded  wings  they  waiting  sit 
For  my  bark,  to  pilot  it 
To  some  calm  and  blooming  cove. 
Where  for  me,  and  those  I  love. 
May  a  windless  bower  be  built, 
Far  from  passion,  pain,  and  guilt, 
In  a  dell  'mid  lawny  hills. 
Which  the  wild  sea-murmur  fills. 
And  soft  sunshine,  and  the  sound 
Of  old  forests  echoing  round. 
And  the  light  and  smell  divine 
Of  all  flowers  that  breathe  and  shine  : 
We  may  live  so  happy  there. 
That  the  spirits  of  the  air, 
Envying  us,  may  even  entice 
To  our  healing  paradise 
The  polluting  multitude; 
But  their  rage  would  be  subdued 
By  that  clime  divine  and  calm. 
And  the  winds  whose  wings  rain  balm 
On  the  uplifted  soul,  and  leaves 
Under  which  the  bright  sea  heaves ; 
While  each  breathless  interval 
In  their  whisperings  musical 
The  inspired  soul  supplies 
With  its  own  deep  melodies, 
And  the  love  which  heals  all  strife 
Circling,  like  the  breath  of  life, 
[28] 


> 

a 

2! 

fej  a 

B 

CO 

•B 

O 

g 

> 

S 

•Tj 

p 

ta 

s 

P 

a 

£^ 

o 

THE   YEAR   1818 

All  things  in  that  sweet  abode 
With  its  own  mild  brotherhood  : 
They,  not  it  wonld  change;  and  soon 
Every  sprite  beneath  the  moon 
Would  repent  its  envy  vain. 
And  the  earth  grow  young  again. 

MARENGHI  i 


Let  those  who  pine  in  pride  or  in  revenge, 
Or  think  that  ill  for  ill  should  be  repaid. 

Or  barter  wrong  for  wrong,  until  the  exchange 
Ruins  the  merchants  of  such  thriftless  trade. 

Visit  the  tower  of  Vado,  and  unlearn 

Such  bitter  faith  beside  Marenghi^s  urn. 

II 

A  massy  tower  yet  overhangs  the  town, 
A  scattered  group  of  ruined  dwellings  now. 

Ill 
Another  scene  ere  wise  Etruria  knew 

Its  second  ruin  through  internal  strife. 
And  tyrants  through  the  breach  of  discord  threw 

The  chain  which  binds  and  kills.     As  death  to  life, 
As  winter  to  fair  flowers  (though  some  be  poison) 
So  Monarchy  succeeds  to  Freedom^s  foison. 

^  This  fragment  refers  to  an  event  told  in  Sismondi's  Eistoire  des  Re- 
publiques  Italiennes,  wliich.  occurred  during  the  war  when  Florence  finally 
subdued  Pisa,  and  reduced  it  to  a  province.  —  Mrs.  Shelley. 

[29] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN  ITALY 

IV 

In  Pisa^s  church  a  cup  of  sculptured  gold 

Was  brimming  with  the  blood  of  feuds  forsworn 

At  sacrament :  more  holy  ne^er  of  old 

Etrurians  mingled  with  the  shades  forlorn 

Of  moon-illumined  forests. 

•  •  •  •  •  ,  • 

V 

And  reconciling  factions  wet  their  lips 

With  that  dread  wine,  and  swear  to  keep  each  spirit 
Undarkened  by  their  country's  last  eclipse. 

VI 

Was  Florence  the  liberticide  ?  that  band 

Of  free  and  glorious  brothers  who  had  planted. 

Like  a  green  isle  ■'mid  Ethiopian  sand, 
A  nation  amid  slaveries,  disenchanted 

Of  many  imjnous  faiths  —  wise,  just  —  do  they. 

Does  Florence,  gorge  the  sated  tyrants^  prey  ? 

VII 

O  foster-nurse  of  man's  abandoned  glory. 

Since  Athens,  its  great  mother,  sunk  in  splendour ; 

Thou  shadowest  forth  that  mighty  shape  in  story, 
As  ocean  its  wrecked  fanes,  severe  yet  tender  :  — 

The  light-invested  angel  Poesy 

Was  drawn  from  the  dim  world  to  welcome  thee. 
[30] 


THE   YEAR   1818 

vni 

And  thou  iu  painting  didst  transcribe  all  taught 
By  loftiest  meditations  ;  marble  knew 

The  sculptor's  fearless  soul  —  and  as  he  wrought. 
The  grace  of  his  own  power  and  freedom  grew. 

And  more  than  all,  heroic,  just,  sublime. 

Thou  wert  among  the  false  —  was  this  thy  crime  ? 

IX 
Yes ;  and  on  Pisa^s  marble  walls  the  twine 

Of  direst  weeds  hangs  garlanded  —  the  snake 
Inhabits  its  wrecked  palaces  ;  —  in  thine 

A  beast  of  subtler  venom  now  doth  make 
Its  lair,  and  sits  amid  their  glories  overthrown. 
And  thus  thy  victim's  fate  is  as  thine  own. 

X 

The  sweetest  flowers  are  ever  frail  and  rare, 
And  love  and  freedom  blossom  but  to  wither ; 

And  good  and  ill  like  vines  entangled  are. 

So  that  their  grapes  may  oft  be  plucked  together ; 

Divide  the  vintage  ere  thou  drink,  then  make 

Thy  heart  rejoice  for  dead  Marenghi's  sake. 

XI 

No  record  of  his  crime  remains  in  story. 

But  if  the  morning  bright  as  evening  shone. 

It  was  some  high  and  holy  deed,  by  glory 
Pursued  into  forgetfulness,  which  won 

From  the  blind  crowd  he  made  secure  and  free 

The  patriot's  meed,  toil,  death,  and  infamy. 
[31  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

XII 
Por  when  by  sound  of  trumpet  was  declared 

A  price  upon  his  life,  and  there  was  set 
A  penalty  of  blood  on  all  who  shared 

So  much  of  water  with  him  as  might  wet 
His  lips,  which  speech  divided  not  —  he  went 
Alone,  as  you  may  guess,  to  banishment. 

XIII 

Amid  the  mountains,  like  a  hunted  beast, 
He  hid  himself,  and  hunger,  toil,  and  cold. 

Month  after  month  endured ;  it  was  a  feast 

Whene'er  he  found  those  globes  of  deep-red  gold 

Which  in  the  woods  the  strawberry-tree  dotli  bear. 

Suspended  in  their  emerald  atmosphere. 

XIV 
And  in  the  roofless  huts  of  vast  morasses. 

Deserted  by  the  fever-stricken  serf. 
All  overgrown  with  reeds  and  long  rank  grasses, 

And  hillocks  heaped  of  moss-inwoven  turf. 
And  where  the  huge  and  speckled  aloe  made, 
Rooted  in  stones,  a  broad  and  pointed  shade, 

XV 

He  housed  himself.     There  is  a  point  of  strand 
Near  Yado's  tower  and  town  ;  and  on  one  side 

The  treacherous  marsh  divides  it  from  the  land. 
Shadowed  by  pine  and  ilex  forests  wide. 

And  on  the  other  creeps  eternally. 

Through  muddy  weeds,  the  shallow  sullen  sea. 
[  32  ] 


;■  o 


2  '^ 


THE   YEAR   1818 

XVI 
Here  the  eartli^s  breath  is  pestilence,  and  few 

But  things  whose  nature  is  at  war  with  bfe  — 
Snakes  and  ill  worms  —  endure  its  mortal  dew. 

The  trophies  of  the  clime's  victorious  strife  — 
White  bones,  and  locks  of  dun  and  yellow  hair, 
And  ringed  horns  which  buffaloes  did  wear  — 

xvn 

And  at  the  utmost  point  .  .  .  stood  there     . 

The  relics  of  a  weed-inwoven  cot. 
Thatched  with  broad  flags.     An  outlawed  murderer 

Had  lived  seven  days  there  :  the  pursuit  was  hot 
When  he  was  cold.  The  birds  that  were  his  grave 
Fell  dead  upon  their  feast  iu  Vado^s  wave. 

xvni 

There  must  have  lived  within  Marenghi^s  heart 
That  fire,  more  warm  and  bright  than  life  or  hope, 

(Which  to  the  martyr  makes  his  dungeon  .  .  . 
More  joyous  than  the  heaven's  majestic  cope 

To  his  oppressor),  warring  with  decay,  — 

Or  he  could  ne'er  have  lived  years,  day  by  day.  ■ 

XIX 

Nor  was  his  state  so  lone  as  you  might  think. 
He  had  tamed  every  newt  and  snake  and  toad, 

And  every  seagull  which  sailed  down  to  drink 
Those  ...  ere  the  death-mist  went  abroad. 

3  [  33  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN  ITALY 

And  each  one^  with  peculiar  talk  and  play. 
Wiled,  not  untaught,  his  silent  time  away. 

XX 

And  the  marsh-meteors,  like  tame  beasts,  at  night 
Came  licking  with  blue  tongues  his  veined  feet ; 

And  he  would  watch  them,  as,  like  spirits  bright. 
In  many  entangled  figures  quaint  and  sweet 

To  some  enchanted  music  they  would  dance  — 

Until  they  vanished  at  the  first  moon-glance. 

XXI 

He  mocked  the  stars  by  grouping  on  each  weed 
The  summer  dewdrops  in  the  golden  dawn ; 

And,  ere  the  hoar-frost  vanished,  he  could  read 
Its  pictured  footprints,  as  on  spots  of  lawn 

Its  delicate  brief  touch  in  silence  weaves 

The  likeness  of  the  wood^s  remembered  leaves. 

XXII 
And  many  a  fresh  Spring-morn  would  he  awaken  — 

While  yet  the  unrisen  sun  made  glow,  like  iron 
Quivering  in  crimson  fire,  the  peaks  unshaken 

Of  mountains  and  blue  isles  which  did  environ 
With  air-clad  crags  that  plain  of  land  and  sea,  — 
And  feel  liberty. 

XXITI 
And  in  the  moonless  nights,  when  the  dim  ocean 

Heaved  underneath  the  heaven,  .  .  . 
Starting  from  dreams  .  .  . 

Communed  with  the  immeasurable  world; 
[34] 


THE   YEAR   1818 

And  felt  liis  life  beyond  his  limbs  dilated. 
Till  his  mind  grew  like  that  it  contemplated. 

XXIV 
His  food  was  the  wild  fig  and  strawberry  ; 

The  milky  pine-nuts  which  the  autumnal  blast 
Shakes  into  the  tall  grass ;  and  such  small  fry 

As  from  the  sea  by  winter-storms  are  cast; 
And  the  coarse  bulbs  of  iris-flowers  he  found 
Knotted  in  clumps  under  the  spongy  ground. 

XXV 

And  so  were  kindled  powers  and  thoughts  which  made 
His  solitude  less  dark.     When  memory  came 

(For  years  gone  by  leave  each  a  deepening  shade), 
His  spirit  basked  in  its  internal  flame,  — 

As,  when  the  black  storm  hurries  round  at  night. 

The  fisher  basks  beside  his  red  fire-light. 

XXVI 
Yet  human  hopes  and  cares  and  faiths  and  errors, 

Like  billows  un  awakened  by  the  wind. 
Slept  in  Marenghi  still ;  but  that  all  terrors. 

Weakness,  and  doubt,  had  withered  in  his  mind. 
His  couch  ... 

And,  when  he  saw  beneath  the  sunset's  planet 
A  black  ship  walk  over  the  crimson  ocean,  — 

Its  pennons  streaming  on  the  blasts  that  fan  it. 
Its  sails  and  ropes  all  tense  and  without  motion, 
[35] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN  ITALY 

Like  the  dark  ghost  of  the  iinburied  even 
Striding  across  the  orange-coloured  heaven,  — 

XXYIII 

The  thought  of  his  own  kind  who  made  the  soul 

Which  sped  that  winged  shape  through  night  and 
day,— 
The  thought  of  his  own  country  ... 


JULIAN   AND  MADDALQi 

A   CONVERSATION 

PREFACE 

The  meadows  with  fresh  streams,  the  hees  with  thyme, 
The  goats  with  the  green  leaves  of  hudding  Spring, 
Are  saturated  not  —  nor  Love  with  tears. 

Virgil's  Gallus. 

Count  Maddalo  is  a  Yenetian  nobleman  of  ancient 
family  and  of  great  fortune,  who,  without  mixing  much  in 
the  society  of  his  countrymen,  resides  chiefly  at  his  mag- 
nificent palace  in  that  city.  He  is  a  person  of  the  most 
consummate  genius,  and  capable,  if  he  would  direct  his 
energies  to  such  an  end,  of  becoming  the  redeemer  of  his 
degraded  country.  But  it  is  his  weakness  to  be  proud : 
he  derives,  from  a  comparison  of  his  own  extraordinary 
mind  with  the  dwarfish  intellects  that  surround  him,  an 

1  Julian  is  the  idealized  portrait  of  Shelley  himself ;  Maddalo  is  Lord 
Byron.  The  poem  was  not  published  until  after  Shelley's  death,  although 
written  during  his  first  year  in  Italy.  He  had  in  mind  to  write  three 
other  poems  as  companions  to  this  Venice  poem,  whose  scenes  were  to  be 
laid  respectively  in  Rome,  Florence,  and  Naples.  But  this  scheme  was 
never  carried  out.  —  Ed. 

[86] 


5'  t^ 


~  ■   b.c 


I    .    -^ 


II 


THE   YEAR   1818 

intense  apprehension  of  the  nothingness  of  human  life. 
His  passions  and  his  powers  are  incomparably  greater  than 
those  of  other  men ;  and^  instead  of  the  latter  having  been 
employed  in  curbing  the  former,  they  have  mutually  lent 
each  other  strength.  His  ambition  preys  upon  itself,  for 
want  of  objects  which  it  can  consider  worthy  of  exertion. 
I  say  that  Maddalo  is  proud,  because  I  can  find  no  other 
word  to  express  the  concentred  and  impatient  feelings 
which  consume  him ;  but  it  is  on  his  own  hopes  and  affec- 
tions only  that  he  seems  to  trample,  for  in  social  life  no 
human  being  can  be  more  gentle,  patient,  and  unassuming 
than  Maddalo.  He  is  cheerful,  frank,  and  witty.  His 
more  serious  conversation  is  a  sort  of  intoxication;  men 
are  held  by  it  as  by  a  spell.  He  has  travelled  much ;  and 
there  is  an  inexpressible  charm  in  his  relation  of  his  adven- 
tures in  different  countries. 

Julian  is  an  Enghshman  of  good  family,  passionately 
attached  to  those  philosophical  notions  which  assert  the 
power  of  man  over  his  own  mind,  and  the  immense  im- 
provements of  which,  by  the  extinction  of  certain  moral 
superstitions,  human  society  may  be  yet  susceptible. 
Without  concealing  the  evil  in  the  world,  he  is  for  ever 
speculating  how  good  may  be  made  superior.  He  is  a 
complete  infidel,  and  a  scoffer  at  all  things  reputed  holy ; 
and  Maddalo  takes  a  wicked  pleasure  in  drawing  out  his 
taunts  against  religion.  What  Maddalo  thinks  on  these 
matters  is  not  exactly  known.  Julian,  in  spite  of  his 
heterodox  opinions,  is  conjectured  by  his  friends  to  possess 
some  good  qualities.  How  far  this  is  possible  the  pious 
reader  will  determine.  Julian  is  rather  serious. 
[37] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN  ITALY 

Of  the  Maniac  ^  I  can  give  no  information.  He  seems, 
by  his  own  account^  to  have  been  disappointed  in  love. 
He  was  evidently  a  very  cultivated  and  amiable  person 
when  in  his  right  senses.  His  story,  told  at  length,  might 
be  like  many  other  stories  of  the  same  kmd  :  the  uncon- 
nected exclamations  of  his  agony  will  perhaps  be  found  a 
sufficient  comment  for  the  text  of  every  heart. 

I  RODE  one  evening  with  Count  Maddalo 

Upon  the  bank  of  land  which  breaks  the  flow 

Of  Adria  towards  Yenice  :  a  bare  strand 

Of  hillocks,  heaped  from  ever-shifting  sand, 

Matted  with  thistles  and  amphibious  weeds. 

Such  as  from  earth's  embrace  the  salt  ooze  breeds, 

Is  this ;  an  uninhabited  sea-side. 

Which  the  lone  fisher,  when  his  nets  are  dried. 

Abandons  ;  and  no  other  object  breaks 

The  waste,  but  one  dwarf  tree  and  some  few  stakes 

Broken  and  unrepaired,  and  the  tide  makes 

A  narrow  space  of  level  sand  thereon. 

Where  't  was  our  wont  to  ride  while  day  went  down. 

This  ride  was  my  delight.     I  love  all  waste 

And  solitary  places;  where  we  taste 

The  pleasure  of  believing  what  we  see 

Is  boundless,  as  we  wish  our  souls  to  be : 

1  Some  critics  have  inferred  that  in  the  Maniac,  Shelley  revealed  much 
of  his  own  darkest  experiences ;  —  that  while  Julian  is  Shelley  in  1818,  the 
distracted  lover  is  Shelley  as  he  conceived  himself  to  have  been  in  1814, 
and  that  the  poem  therefore  offers  two  pictures  of  its  author.  For  some 
reason  unknown,  Shelley  had  ordered  it  to  be  published  without  his  name  ; 
also  for  some  reason  unknown,  it  was  withheld  from  publication  altogether 
by  his  friend  Leigh  Hunt,  to  whom  it  was  sent.  —  Ed. 

[38] 


THE   YEAR   1818 

And  such  was  this  wide  ocean^  and  this  shore 
More  barren  than  its  billows ;  and  yet  more 
Than  all,  with  a  remembered  friend  I  love 
To  ride  as  then  I  rode ;  —  for  the  winds  drove 
The  living  spray  along  the  sunny  air 
Into  our  faces ;  the  blue  heavens  were  bare, 
Stripped  to  their  depths  by  the  awakening  north ; 
And,  from  the  waves,  sound  like  delight  broke  forth 
Harmonising  with  solitude,  and  sent 
Into  our  hearts  aerial  merriment. 
So,  as  we  rode,  we  talked;  and  the  swift  thought. 
Winging  itself  with  laughter,  lingered  not. 
But  flew  from  brain  to  brain ;  such  glee  was  ours. 
Charged  with  light  memories  of  remembered  hours. 
None  slow  enough  for  sadness  :  till  we  came 
Homeward,  which  always  make  the  spirit  tame. 
This  day  had  been  cheerful  but  cold,  and  now 
The  sun  was  sinking,  and  the  wind  also. 
Our  talk  grew  somewhat  serious,  as  may  be 
Talk  interrupted  with  such  raillery 
As  mocks  itself,  because  it  cannot  scorn 
The  thoughts  it  would  extinguish  :  —  't  was  forlorn, 
Yet  pleasing,  such  as  once,  so  poets  tell. 
The  devils  held  within  the  dales  of  HeU 
Concerning  God,  freewill,  and  destiny  : 
Of  all  that  earth  has  been  or  yet  may  be. 
All  that  vain  men  imagine  or  believe, 
Or  hope  can  paint  or  suffering  may  achieve, 
"We  descanted,  and  I  (for  ever  still 
Is  it  not  wise  to  make  the  best  of  ill  ?) 
[39] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN   ITALY 

Argued  against  despondency,  but  pride 
Made  my  companion  take  the  darker  side. 
The  sense  that  he  was  greater  than  his  kind 
Had  struck,  methinks,  his  eagle  spirit  blind 
By  gazing  on  its  own  exceeding  light. 
Meanwhile  the  sun  paused  ere  it  should  alight, 
Over  the  horizon  of  the  mountains  ;  —  Oh, 
How  beautiful  is  sunset,  when  the  glow 
Of  Heaven  descends  upon  a  land  like  thee. 
Thou  Paradise  of  exiles,  Italy  ! 
Thy  mountains,  seas  and  vineyards  and  the  towers 
Of  cities  they  encircle  !  —  it  was  ours 
To  stand  on  thee,  beholding  it ;  and  then. 
Just  where  we  had  dismounted,  the  Count's  men 
Were  waiting  for  us  with  the  gondola.  — 
As  those  who  pause  on  some  delightful  way 
Tho'  bent  on  pleasant  pilgrimage,  we  stood 
Looking  upon  the  evening,  and  the  flood 
Which  lay  between  the  city  and  the  shore 
Paved  with  the  image  of  the  sky.     The  hoar 
And  aery  Alps  towards  the  North  appeared 
Thro^  mist,  an  heaven-sustaining  bulwark  reared 
Between  the  East  and  West ;  and  half  the  sky 
Was  roofed  with  clouds  of  rich  emblazonry, 
Dark  purple  at  the  zenith,  which  still  grew 
Down  the  steep  West  into  a  wondrous  hue 
Brighter  than  burning  gold,  even  to  the  rent 
Where  the  swift  sun  yet  paused  in  his  descent 
Among  the  many-folded  hills  :  they  were 
Those  famous  Euganean  hills,  which  bear 
[40] 


A  MONG  the  EiiLrauean  Hills. 


'■'•^ Mid  till'  moim/diiis  /■^iii/diuini 

I  stood   lixtluilKf   to    till'  jKfdll 

With  wliir/i  the  liyiotidd  rooks  did  Itnil 

The  suns  uprise  majestical."     —  Euganean  Hills,  p.l8. 


"  Those  famous  Kur/nuedn  hills,  which  hear 
As  seen  from  Lido  thro'  the  hurhour  jnles 
The  likeness  of  a  rlumi)  of  peaked  isles."     - 


Julian  and  Maddalo,  p.  40. 


THE   YEAR   1818 

As  seen  from  Lido  thro'  the  harbour  piles 
The  likeness  of  a  clump  of  peaked  isles  — 
And  then,  as  if  the  Earth  and  Sea  had  been 
Dissolved  into  one  lake  of  fire,  were  seen 
Those  mountains  towering  as  from  waves  of  flame 
Around  the  vaporous  sun,  from  which  there  came 
The  inmost  purple  spirit  of  light_,  and  made 
Their  very  peaks  transparent.     "  Ere  it  fade," 
Said  my  companion,  "  I  will  show  you  soon 
A  better  station  "  —  so,  o'er  the  lagune 
We  glided,  and  from  that  funereal  bark 
I  leaned,  and  saw  the  city,  and  could  mark 
How  from  their  many  isles  in  evening's  gleam, 
Its  temples  and  its  palaces  did  seem 
Like  fabrics  of  enchantment  piled  to  Heaven. 
I  was  about  to  speak,  when  —  "  We  are  even 
Now  at  the  point  I  meant,"  said  Maddalo, 
And  bade  the  gondolieri  cease  to  row. 
"  Look,  Julian,  on  the  west,  and  listen  well 
If  you  hear  not  a  deep  and  heavy  bell." 
I  looked,  and  saw  between  us  and  the  suu 
A  building  on  an  island ;  such  a  one 
As  age  to  age  might  add,  for  uses  vile, 
A  windowless,  deformed  and  dreary  pile; 
And  on  the  top  an  open  tower,  where  hung 
A  bell,  which  in  the  radiance  swayed  and  swung; 
We  could  just  hear  its  hoarse  and  iron  tongue : 
The  broad  sun  sunk  behind  it,  and  it  tolled 
In  strong  and  black  relief  —  "  What  we  behold 
Shall  be  the  madhouse  and  its  belfry  tower," 
[41] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN   ITALY 

Said  Maddalo,  ''  and  ever  at  this  hour 
Those  who  may  cross  the  water,  hear  that  bell 
Which  calls  the  maniacs  each  one  from  his  cell 
To  vespers/^  —  "  As  much  skill  as  need  to  pray- 
In  thanks  or  hope  for  their  dark  lot  have  they 
To  their  stern  maker/'  I  replied.     "  0  ho  ! 
You  talk  as  in  years  past,"  said  Maddalo. 
"  'T  is  strange  men  change  not.     You  were  ever  still 
Among  Christ's  flock  a  perilous  infidel, 
A  wolf  for  the  meek  lambs  —  if  you  can't  swim 
Beware  of  Providence."     I  looked  on  him, 
But  the  gay  smile  had  faded  in  his  eye, 
"  And  such/'  —  he  cried,  "  is  our  mortality, 
And  this  must  be  the  emblem  and  the  sign 
Of  what  should  be  eternal  and  divine  !  — 
And  like  that  black  and  dreary  bell,  the  soul 
Hung  in  a  heaven-illumined  tower,  must  toll 
Our  thoughts  and  our  desires  to  meet  below 
Round  the  rent  heart  and  pray  —  as  madmen  do 
For  what  ?  they  know  not,  till  the  night  of  death 
As  sunset  that  strange  vision,  severeth 
Our  memory  from  itself,  and  us  from  all 
We  sought  and  yet  were  baffled."     I  recall 
The  sense  of  what  he  said,  altho'  I  mar 
The  force  of  his  expressions.     The  broad  star 
Of  day  meanwhile  had  sunk  behind  tlie  hill. 
And  the  black  bell  became  invisible. 
And  the  red  tower  looked  grey,  and  all  between 
The  churches,  ships  and  palaces  were  seen 
Huddled  in  gloom ;  —  into  the  purple  sea 
[42] 


THE   YEAR   1818 

The  orange  hues  of  heaven  sunk  silently. 
We  hardly  spoke^  and  soon  the  gondola 
Conveyed  me  to  my  lodgings  by  the  way. 

The  following  morn  was  rainy,  cold  and  dim. 
Ere  Maddalo  arose,  I  called  on  him. 
And  whilst  I  waited  with  his  child  I  played ; 
A  lovelier  toy  sweet  Nature  never  made, 
A  serious,  subtle,  wild,  yet  gentle  being, 
Graceful  without  design  and  unforeseeing. 
With  eyes  —  Oh  speak  not  of  her  eyes  !  —  which  seem 
Twin  mirrors  of  Italian  Heaven,  yet  gleam 
With  such  deep  meaning,  as  we  never  see 
But  in  the  human  countenance.     With  me 
She  was  a  special  favourite :  I  had  nursed 
Her  fine  and  feeble  limbs  when  she  came  first 
To  this  bleak  world ;  and  she  yet  seemed  to  know 
On  second  sight  her  ancient  playfellow. 
Less  changed  than  she  was  by  six  months  or  so ; 
Eor  after  her  first  shyness  was  worn  out 
We  sate  there,  rolling  billiard  balls  about. 
When  the  Count  entered.     Salutations  past ; 
"The  word  you  spoke  last  night  might  well  have  cast 
A  darkness  on  my  spirit  —  if  man  be 
The  passive  thing  you  say,  I  should  not  see 
Much  harm  in  the  religions  and  old  saws 
(Tho^  I  may  never  own  such  leaden  laws) 
Which  break  a  teachless  nature  to  the  yoke : 
Mine  is  another  faith  "  —  thus  much  I  spoke 
And  noting  he  replied  not,  added  :  "  See 
This  lovely  child,  blithe,  innocent,  and  free, 
[43] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN  ITALY 

She  spends  a  happy  time  with  little  care 
While  we  to  such  sick  thoughts  subjected  are 
As  came  on  you  last  night  —  it  is  our  will 
Which  thus  enchains  us  to  permitted  ill  — 
We  might  be  otherwise  —  we  might  be  all 
We  dream  of,  happy,  high,  majestical. 
Where  is  the  love,  beauty,  and  truth  we  seek 
But  in  our  mind  ?  and  if  we  were  not  weak 
Should  we  be  less  in  deed  than  in  desire  ?  " 
"  Aye,  if  we  were  not  weak  —  and  we  aspire 
How  vainly  to  be  strong  ! "  said  Maddalo  : 
"  You  talk  Utopia/^     "  It  remains  to  know," 
I  then  rejoined,  "  and  those  who  try  may  find 
How  strong  the  chains  are  which  our  spirit  bind ; 
Brittle  perchance  as  straw.     .  .  .  We  are  assured 
Much  may  be  conquered,  much  may  be  endured 
Of  what  degrades  and  crushes  us.     We  know 
That  we  have  power  over  ourselves  to  do 
And  suffer  —  what,  we  know  not  till  we  try  ; 
But  something  nobler  than  to  live  and  die  — 
So  taught  those  kings  of  old  philosophy 
Who  reigned,  before  Religion  made  men  blind; 
And  those  who  suffer  with  their  suffering  kind 
Yet  feel  their  faith,  religion."     "My  dear  friend,^^ 
Said  Maddalo,  "  my  judgment,  will  not  bend 
To  your  opinion,  tho'  I  think  you  might 
Make  such  a  system  refutation-tight 
As  far  as  words  go.     I  knew  one  like  you 
Who  to  this  city  came  some  months  ago. 
With  whom  I  argued  in  this  sort,  and  he 
[  44  ] 


THE    YEAR   1818 

Is  now  gone  mad,  —  and  so  he  answered  me,  — 
Poor  fellow  !     But  if  you  would  like  to  go 
We  '11  visit  him,  and  his  wild  talk  will  show 
How  vain  are  such  aspiring  theories." 
"  I  hope  to  prove  the  induction  otherwise, 
And  that  a  want  of  that  true  theory,  still, 
Which  seeks  a  '  soul  of  goodness '  in  things  ill, 
Or  in  himself  or  others,  has  thus  bowed 
His  being  —  there  are  some  by  nature  proud. 
Who  patient  in  all  else  demand  but  this  — 
To  love  and  be  beloved  with  gentleness ; 
And  being  scorned,  what  wonder  if  they  die 
Some  living  death?  this  is  not  destiny 
But  man's  own  wiKul  ill." 

As  thus  I  spoke 
Servants  announced  the  gondola,  and  we 
Through  the  fast-falling  rain  and  high-wrought  sea 
Sailed  to  the  island  where  the  madhouse  stands. 
We  disembarked.     The  clap  of  tortured  hands. 
Fierce  yells  and  bowlings  and  lamentings  keen. 
And  laughter  where  complaint  had  merrier  been. 
Moans,  shrieks,  and  curses,  and  blaspheming  prayers 
Accosted  us.     We  climbed  the  oozy  stairs 
Into  an  old  courtyard.     I  heard  on  high. 
Then,  fragments  of  most  touching  melody. 
But  looking  up  saw  not  the  singer  tliere. 
Through  the  black  bars  in  the  tempestuous  air 
I  saw,  like  weeds  on  a  wrecked  palace  growing. 
Long  tangled  locks  flung  wildly  forth,  and  flowing. 
Of  those  who  on  a  sudden  were  beguiled 
[45] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

Into  strange  silence,  and  looked  forth  and  smiled 
Hearing   sweet   sounds. — Then   I:    "  Methinks   there 

were 
A  cure  of  these  with  patience  and  kind  care, 
If  music  can  thus  move  .  .  .  but  Avhat  is  he 
Whom  we  seek  here ?  "     "Of  his  sad  history 
I  know  but  this,"  said  Maddalo,  "  he  came 
To  Venice  a  dejected  man,  and  fame 
Said  he  was  wealthy,  or  he  had  been  so ; 
Some  thought  the  loss  of  fortune  wrought  him  woe ; 
But  he  was  ever  talking  in  such  sort 
As  you  do  —  far  more  sadly ;  he  seemed  hurt, 
Even  as  a  man  with  his  peculiar  wrong. 
To  hear  but  of  the  oppression  of  the  strong. 
Or  those  absurd  deceits  (I  think  with  you 
In  some  respects  you  know)  which  carry  through 
The  excellent  impostors  of  this  earth 
When  they  outface  detection :  he  had  worth. 
Poor  fellow !  but  a  humourist  in  his  way  "  — 
"  Alas,  what  drove  him  mad ? "     "I  cannot  say ; 
A  lady  came  with  him  from  France,  and  when 
She  left  him  and  returned,  he  wandered  then 
About  yon  lonely  isles  of  desert  sand 
Till  he  grew  wild  —  he  had  no  cash  or  land 
Remaining,  —  the  police  had  brought  him  here  — 
Some  fancy  took  him  and  he  would  not  bear 
Eemoval ;  so  I  fitted  up  for  him 
Those  rooms  beside  the  sea,  to  please  his  whim, 
And  sent  him  busts  and  books  and  urns  for  flowers 
Which  had  adorned  his  life  hi  happier  hours, 
[46] 


V. 


THE   YEAR  1818 

And  instruments  of  music  —  you  may  guess 

A  stranger  could  do  little  more  or  less 

For  one  so  gentle  and  unfortunate  : 

And  those  are  his  sweet  strains  which  charm  the  weight 

From  madmen's  chains^  and  make  this  Hell  appear 

A  heaven  of  sacred  silence^  hushed  to  hear/^  — 

"  Nay,  this  was  kind  of  you  —  he  had  no  claim. 

As  the  world  says  "  —  "  None  —  but  the  very  same 

Which  1  on  all  mankind  were  I  as  he 

Fallen  to  such  deep  reverse  ;  —  his  melody 

Is  interrupted  —  now  we  hear  the  din 

Of  madmen,  shriek  on  shriek  again  begin ; 

Let  us  now  visit  him;  after  this  strain 

He  ever  communes  with  himself  again, 

And  sees  nor  hears  not  any/'     Having  said 

These  words  we  called  the  keeper,  and  he  led 

To  an  apartment  opening  on  the  sea — 

There  the  poor  wretch  was  sitting  mournfully 

Near  a  piano,  his  pale  fingers  twined 

One  with  the  other,  and  the  ooze  and  wind 

Rushed  through  an  open  casement,  and  did  sway 

His  hair,  and  starred  it  with  the  brackish  spray ; 

His  head  was  leaning  on  a  music  book. 

And  he  was  muttering,  and  his  lean  limbs  shook; 

His  lips  were  pressed  against  a  folded  leaf 

In  hue  too  beautiful  for  health,  and  grief 

Smiled  in  their  motions  as  they  lay  apart  — 

As  one  who  wrought  from  his  own  fervid  heart 

The  eloquence  of  passion,  soon  he  raised 

His  sad  meek  face  and  eyes  lustrous  and  glazed 

[it] 


WITH  SHELLEY  IN   ITALY 

And  spoke  —  sometimes  as  one  who  wrote  and  thought 

His  words  might  move  some  heart  that  heeded  not 

If  sent  to  distant  lands  :  and  then  as  one 

Reproaching  deeds  never  to  be  undone 

With  wondering  self-compassion ;  then  his  speech 

Was  lost  in  grief^  and  then  his  words  came  each 

Unmodulated,  cold,  expressionless, — 

But  that  from  one  jarred  accent  you  might  guess 

It  was  despair  made  them  so  uniform  : 

And  all  the  while  the  loud  and  gusty  storm 

Hissed  thro^  the  window,  and  we  stood  behind 

Stealing  his  accents  from  the  envious  wind 

Unseen.     I  yet  remember  what  he  said 

Distinctly :  such  impression  his  words  made. 

"  Month  after  month,"  he  cried,  "  to  bear  this  load 
And  as  a  jade  urged  by  the  whip  and  goad 
To  drag  life  on,  which  like  a  heavy  chain 
Lengthens  behind  with  many  a  link  of  pain  !  — 
And  not  to  speak  my  grief  —  0  not  to  dare 
To  give  a  human  voice  to  my  despair. 
But  live  and  move,  and  wretched  thing  !  smile  on 
As  if  I  never  went  aside  to  groan. 
And  wear  this  mask  of  falsehood  even  to  those 
Who  are  most  dear  —  not  for  my  own  repose  — 
Alas !  no  scorn  or  pain  or  hate  could  be 
So  heavy  as  that  falsehood  is  to  me  — 
But  that  I  cannot  bear  more  altered  faces 
Than  needs  must  be,  more  changed  and  cold  embraces, 
More  misery,  disappointment,  and  mistrust 
To  own  me  for  their  father  .  .  .  Would  the  dust 
[48] 


THE   YEAR   1818 

Were  covered  in  upon  my  body  now  ! 
That  the  life  ceased  to  toil  within  my  brow  ! 
And  then  these  thoughts  would  at  the  least  be  fled ; 
Let  us  not  fear  such  pain  can  vex  the  dead. 

"  What  Power  delights  to  torture  us  ?     I  know 
That  to  myself  I  do  not  wholly  owe 
What  now  I  suffer,  tho'  in  part  I  may. 
Alas  !  none  strewed  sweet  flowers  upon  the  way 
Where  wandering  heedlessly,  I  met  pale  Pain, 
My  shadow,  which  will  leave  me  not  again  — 
If  I  have  erred,  there  was  no  joy  in  error. 
But  pain  and  insult  and  unrest  and  terror ; 
I  have  not  as  some  do,  bought  penitence 
With  pleasure,  and  a  dark  yet  sweet  offence. 
For  then,  if  love  and  tenderness  and  truth 
Had  overlived  hope's  momentary  youth. 
My  creed  should  have  redeemed  me  from  repenting ; 
But  loathed  scorn  and  outrage  unrelenting, 
Met  love  excited  by  far  other  seeming 
Until  the  end  was  gained  ...  as  one  from  dreaming 
Of  sweetest  peace,  I  woke,  and  found  my  state 

Such  as  it  is. 

"  0  Thou,  my  spirit's  mate 
Who,  for  thou  art  compassionate  and  wise, 
Wouldst  pity  me  from  thy  most  gentle  eyes 
If  this  sad  writing  thou  shouldst  ever  see  — 
My  secret  groans  must  be  unheard  by  thee, 
Thou  wouldst  weep  tears  bitter  as  blood  to  know 
Thy  lost  friend's  incommunicable  woe. 

"  Ye  few  by  whom  my  nature  has  been  weighed 

4  [  49  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN   ITALY 

In  friendship,  let  me  not  that  name  degrade 
By  placing  on  your  hearts  the  secret  load 
Which  crushes  mine  to  dust.     There  is  one  road 
To  peace  and  that  is  truth,  which  follow  ye  ! 
Love  sometimes  leads  astray  to  misery. 
Yet  think  not  tho'  subdued  —  and  I  may  well 
Say  that  I  am  subdued  —  that  the  full  Hell 
Within  me  would  infect  the  untainted  breast 
Of  sacred  nature  with  its  own  unrest ; 
As  some  perverted  beings  think  to  find 
In  scorn  or  hate  a  medicine  for  the  mind 
Which  scorn  or  hate  hath  wounded  —  O  how  vain  ! 
The  dagger  heals  not  but  may  rend  again  .  .  . 
Believe  that  I  am  ever  still  the  same 
In  creed  as  in  resolve,  and  what  may  tame 
My  heart,  must  leave  the  understanding  free, 
Or  all  would  sink  in  this  keen  agony  — 
Nor  dream  that  I  will  join  the  vulgar  cry, 
Or  with  my  silence  sanction  tyranny. 
Or  seek  a  moment's  shelter  from  my  pain 
In  any  madness  which  the  world  calls  gain. 
Ambition  or  revenge  or  thoughts  as  stern 
As  those  which  make  me  what  I  am,  or  turn 
To  avarice  or  misanthropy  or  lust  .  .  . 
Heap  on  me  soon  0  grave,  thy  welcome  dust ! 
Till  then  the  dungeon  may  demand  its  prey, 
And  Poverty  and  Shame  may  meet  and  say  — 
Halting  beside  me  on  the  public  M'ay  — 
'  That  love-devoted  youth  is  ours  —  let 's  sit 
Beside  him  —  he  may  live  some  six  months  yet/ 
[50] 


THE   YEAR   1818 

Or  the  red  scaffold^  as  our  country  bends. 
May  ask  some  willing  victim,  or  ye,  friends. 
May  fall  under  some  sorrow  which  this  heart 
Or  hand  may  share  or  vanquish  or  avert ; 
I  am  prepared  —  in  truth  with  no  proud  joy  — 
To  do  or  suffer  aught,  as  when  a  boy 
I  did  devote  to  justice  and  to  love 
My  nature,  worthless  now  !  ,  .  . 

"  I  must  remove 
A  veil  from  my  pent  mind.     ^T  is  torn  aside  ! 
0,  pallid  as  Death's  dedicated  bride, 
Thou  mockery  which  art  sitting  by  my  side, 
Am  I  not  wan  like  thee  ?  at  the  grave's  call 
I  haste,  invited  to  thy  wedding-ball 
To  greet  the  ghastly  paramour,  for  whom 
Thou  hast  deserted  me  .  .  .  and  made  the  tomb 
Thy  bridal  bed  .  .  .  But  I  beside  your  feet 
Will  lie  and  watch  ye  from  my  winding  sheet  — 
Thus  .  .   .  wide    awake    tho'    dead    .  .   .  yet   stay,    O 

stay ! 
Go  not  so  soon  —  I  know  not  what  I  say  — 
Hear  but  my  reasons  ...  I  am  mad,  I  fear. 
My  fancy  is  o'erwrought  .  .   .  thou  art  not  here  .  .  . 
Pale  art  thou,  •'t  is  most  true  .  .   .  but  thou  art  gone. 
Thy  work  is  finished  ...  I  am  left  alone  !  — 

"  Nay,  was  it  I  who  wooed  thee  to  this  breast 
Which,  like  a  serpent  thou  envenomest 
As  in  repayment  of  the  warmth  it  lent  ? 
Didst  thou  not  seek  me  for  thine  own  content  ? 
[51  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN  ITALY 

Did  not  thy  love  awaken  mine  ?     I  thought 

That  thou  wert  she  who  said  '  You  kiss  me  not 

Ever,  I  fear  you  do  not  love  me  now '  — 

In  truth  I  loved  even  to  my  overthrow 

Her,  who  would  fain  forget  these  words  :  but  they 

Cling  to  her  mind,  and  cannot  pass  away. 

"  You  say  that  I  am  proud  —  that  when  I  speak 
My  lip  is  tortured  with  the  wrongs  which  break 
The  spirit  it  expresses  .  .  .  Never  one 
Humbled  himself  before,  as  I  have  done  ! 
Even  the  instinctive  worm  on  which  we  tread 
Turns,  tho'  it  wound  not  —  then  with  prostrate  head 
Sinks  in  the  dusk  and  writhes  hke  me  —  and  dies  ? 
No  :  wears  a  living  death  of  agonies  ! 
As  the  slow  shadows  of  the  pointed  grass 
Mark  the  eternal  periods,  his  pangs  pass 
Slow,  ever-moving,  —  making  moments  be 
As  mine  seem  —  each  an  immortality  ! 

•  ••••• 

"  That  you  had  never  seen  me  —  never  heard 
My  voice,  and  more  than  all  had  ne'er  endured 
The  deep  pollution  of  my  loathed  embrace  — 
That  your  eyes  ne'er  had  lied  love  in  my  face  — 
That,  like  some  maniac  monk,  I  had  torn  out 
The  nerves  of  manhood  by  their  bleeding  root 
"With  mine  own  quivering  fingers,  so  that  ne'er 
Our  hearts  had  for  a  moment  mingled  there 
To  disunite  in  horror — these  were  not 
With  thee,  like  some  suppressed  and  hideous  thought 
[52] 


EANING    Towers 
of  liolotrua. 


"Yuu  m'uiht  almost  fancy  the  citj/  it>  rocked 
by  an  earthquake.''^ 

—  Letter  from  Bologna,  p.  GG. 


THE  YEAR  1818 

Wliich  flits  athwart  our  musings^  but  can  find 
No  rest  -within  a  pure  and  gentle  mind  .  .  . 
Thou  sealedst  them  with  many  a  bare  broad  word 
And  searedst  my  memory  o^er  them,  —  for  I  heard 
And  can  forget  not  .  .  .  they  were  ministered 
One  after  one,  those  curses.     Mix  them  up 
Like  self-destroying  poisons  in  one  cup, 
And  they  will  make  one  blessing  which  thou  ne^er 
Didst  imprecate  for,  on  me,  —  death. 

"  It  were 
A  cruel  punishment  for  one  most  cruel 
If  such  can  love,  to  make  that  love  the  fuel 
Of  the  mind's  hell ;  hate,  scorn,  remorse,  despair  : 
But  me  —  whose  heart  a  stranger's  tear  might  wear 
As  water-drops  the  sandy  fountain-stone. 
Who  loved  and  pitied  all  things,  and  could  moan 
For  woes  which  others  hear  not,  and  could  see 
The  absent  with  the  glance  of  phantasy. 
And  with  the  poor  and  trampled  sit  and  weep, 
Following  the  captive  to  his  dungeon  deep  ; 
Me  —  who  am  as  a  nerve  o'er  which  do  creep 
The  else  unfelt  oppressions  of  this  earth. 
And  was  to  thee  the  flame  upon  thy  hearth, 
"When  all  beside  was  cold  —  that  thou  on  me 
Shouldst  rain  these  plagues  of  blistering  agony  — 
Such  curses  are  from  lips  once  eloquent 
With  love's  too  partial  praise  —  let  none  relent 
Who  intend  deeds  too  dreadful  for  a  name 
Henceforth,  if  an  example  for  the  same 
[53] 


Wn[TH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

They  seek  ...  for  thou  on  me  lookedst  so,  and  so  — 
And  didst  speak  thus  .  .  .  and  thus  ...  I  live  to  show 
How  much  men  bear  and  die  not ! 

'^Thou  wilt  tell. 
With  the  grimace  of  hate  how  horrible 
It  was  to  meet  my  love  when  thine  grew  less  ; 
Thou  wilt  admire  how  I  could,  e^er  address 
Such  features  to  love's  work  .  .  .  this  taunt,  tho'  true, 
(For  indeed  nature  nor  in  form  nor  hue 
Bestowed  on  me  her  choicest  workmanship) 
Shall  not  be  thy  defence  ...  for  since  thy  lip 
Met  mine  first,  years  long  past,  since  thine  eye  kindled 
With  soft  fire  under  mine,  I  have  not  dwindled 
Nor  changed  in  mind  or  body,  or  in  aught 
But  as  love  changes  what  it  loveth  not 
After  long  years  and  many  trials. 

"  How  vain 
Are  words  !     I  thought  never  to  speak  again. 
Not  even  in  secret,  —  not  to  my  own  heart  — 
But  from  my  lips  the  unwilling  accents  start, 
And  from  my  pen  the  words  flow  as  I  write. 
Dazzling  my  eyes  with  scalding  tears  .  .  .  my  sight 
Is  dim  to  see  that  charactered  in  vain 
On  this  unfeeling  leaf  which  burns  the  brain 
And  eats  into  it  .  .  .  blotting  all  things  fair 
And  wise  and  good  which  time  had  written  there. 

"  Those  who  inflict  must  suffer,  for  they  see 
The  work  of  their  own  hearts  and  this  must  be 
Our  chastisement  or  recompense  —  0  child  ! 
[54] 


THE   YEAR   1818 

I  would  that  thine  were  like  to  be  more  mild 

For  both  our  wretched  sakes  ...  for  thiue  the  most 

Who  feelest  already  all  that  thou  hast  lost 

Without  the  power  to  wish  it  thine  again ; 

And  as  slow  years  pass,  a  funereal  train 

Each  with  the  ghost  of  some  lost  hope  or  friend 

Following  it  like  its  shadow,  wilt  thou  bend 

No  thought  on  my  dead  memory  ? 

"  Alas,  love ! 
Fear  me  not  .  .  .  against  thee  I  would  not  move 
A  finger  in  despite.     Do  I  not  live 
That  thou  mayst  have  less  bitter  cause  to  grieve  ? 
I  give  thee  tears  for  scorn  and  love  for  hate; 
And  that  thy  lot  may  be  less  desolate 
Than  his  on  whom  thou  tramplest,  I  refrain 
From  that  sweet  sleep  which  medicines  all  pain. 
Then,  when  thou  speakest  of  me,  never  say 
'  He  could  forgive  not.''     Here  I  cast  away 
All  human  passions,  all  revenge,  all  pride ; 
I  think,  speak,  act  no  ill ;  I  do  but  hide 
Under  these  words,  like  embers,  every  spark 
Of  that  which  has  consumed  me  —  quick  and  dark 
The  grave  is  yawning  ...  as  its  roof  shall  cover 
My  limbs  with  dust  and  worms  under  and  over 
So  let  Oblivion  hide  this  grief  .  .  .  the  air 
Closes  upon  my  accents,  as  despair 
Upon  my  heart  —  let  death  upon  despair ! " 

He  ceased,  and  overcome  leant  back  awhile. 
Then  rising,  with  a  melancholy  smile 
[55] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN  ITALY 

Went  to  a  sofa,  and  lay  down,  and  slept 
A  heavy  sleep,  and  in  his  dreams  he  wept 
And  muttered  some  familiar  name,  and  we 
Wept  without  shame  in  his  society. 
I  think  I  never  was  impressed  so  much; 
The  man  who  Avere  not,  must  have  lacked  a  touch 
Of  human  nature  .  .  .  then  we  lingered  not. 
Although  our  argument  was  quite  forgot. 
But  calling  the  attendants,  went  to  dine 
At  Maddalo's ;  yet  neither  cheer  nor  wine 
Could  give  us  spirits,  for  we  talked  of  him 
And  nothing  else,  till  daylight  made  stars  dim ; 
And  we  agreed  his  was  some  dreadful  ill 
Wrought  on  him  boldly,  yet  unspeakable. 
By  a  dear  friend ;  some  deadly  change  in  love 
Of  one  vowed  deeply  which  he  dreamed  not  of; 
Por  whose  sake  he,  it  seemed,  had  fixed  a  blot 
Of  falsehood  on  his  mind  which  flourished  not 
But  in  the  light  of  all-beholding  truth. 
And  having  stamped  this  canker  on  his  youth 
She  had  abandoned  him  — and  how  much  more 
Might  be  his  woe,  we  guessed  not  —  he  had  store 
Of  friends  and  fortune  once,  as  we  could  guess 
Trom  his  nice  habits  and  his  gentleness  ; 
These  were  now  lost  ...  it  were  a  grief  indeed 
If  he  had  changed  one  unsustaining  reed 
For  all  that  such  a  man  might  else  adorn. 
The  colours  of  liis  mind  seemed  yet  unworn ; 
For  the  wild  language  of  his  grief  was  high, 
Such  as  in  measure  were  called  poetry, 
[56] 


THE   YEAR   1818 

And  I  remember  one  remark  which  then 
Maddalo  made.     He  said  :  "  Most  wretched  men 
Are  cradled  into  poetry  by  wrongs 
They  learn  in  suffering  what  they  teach  in  song/' 

If  I  had  been  an  unconnected  man 
I,  from  this  moment,  should  have  formed  some  plan 
Never  to  leave  sweet  Venice,  —  for  to  me 
It  was  dehght  to  ride  by  the  lone  sea ; 
And  then  the  town  is  silent  —  one  may  write 
Or  read  in  gondolas  by  day  or  night. 
Having  the  little  brazen  lamp  alight. 
Unseen,  uninterrupted ;  books  are  there. 
Pictures,  and  casts  from  all  those  statues  fair 
Which  were  twin-born  with  poetry,  and  all 
We  seek  in  towns,  with  little  to  recall 
Regrets  for  the  green  country.     I  might  sit 
In  Maddalo^s  great  palace,  and  his  wit 
And  subtle  talk  would  cheer  the  winter  night 
And  make  me  know  myself,  and  the  firelight 
Would  flash  upon  our  faces,  till  the  day 
Might  dawn  and  make  me  wonder  at  my  stay : 
But  I  had  friends  in  London  too  :  the  chief 
Attraction  here,  was  that  I  sought  relief 
Prom  the  deep  tenderness  that  maniac  wrought 
Within  me  —  ■'t  was  perhaps  an  idle  thought  — 
But  I  imagined  that  if  day  by  day 
I  watched  him,  and  but  seldom  went  away. 
And  studied  all  the  beatings  of  his  heart 
With  zeal,  as  men  study  some  stubborn  art 
[57] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN  ITALY 

Tor  their  own  good,  and  could  bj  patience  find 
An  entrance  to  the  caverns  of  his  mind, 
I  might  reclaim  him  from  this  dark  estate; 
In  friendships  I  had  been  most  fortunate  — 
Yet  never  saw  I  one  whom  I  would  call 
More  willingly  my  friend ;  and  this  was  all 
Accomplished  not ;  such  dreams  of  baseless  good 
Oft  come  and  go  in  crowds  or  solitude 
And  leave  no  trace  —  but  what  I  now  designed 
Made  for  long  years  impression  on  my  mind. 
The  following  morning  urged  by  my  affairs 
I  left  bright  Yenice. 

After  many  years 
And  many  changes  I  returned ;  the  name 
Of  Venice,  and  its  aspect,  was  the  same ; 
But  Maddalo  was  travelling  far  away 
Among  the  mountains  of  Armenia. 
His  dog  was  dead.     His  child  had  now  become 
A  woman ;  such  as  it  has  been  my  doom 
To  meet  with  few,  a  wonder  of  this  earth 
Where  there  is  little  of  transcendant  worth, 
Like  one  of  Shakespeare's  women  :  kindly  she. 
And  with  a  manner  beyond  courtesy, 
Eeceived  her  father's  friend  ;  and  when  I  asked 
Of  the  lorn  maniac,  she  her  memory  tasked 
And  told  as  she  had  heard  the  mournful  tale. 
"That  the  poor  sufferer's  health  began  to  fail 
Two  years  from  my  departure,  but  that  then 
The  lady  who  had  left  him,  came  again. 
Her  mien  had  been  imperious,  but  she  now 
[58] 


w 


THE   YEAR   1818 

Looked  meek  —  perhaps  remorse  had  brought  her  low. 

Her  coming  made  him  better^  and  they  stayed 

Together  at  my  father's  —  for  I  played 

As  I  remember  with  the  lady's  shawl  — 

I  might  be  six  years  old  — but  after  all 

She  left  him "  .  .  .  "  Why,  her  heart  must  have  been 

tough : 
How  did  it  end  ?  "     "  And  was  not  this  enough  ? 
They  met  —  they  parted  "  —  "  Child^  is  there  no  more?  " 
"  Something  within  that  interval  which  bore 
The  stamp  of  whi/  they  parted^  how  they  met : 
Yet  if  thine  aged  eyes  disdain  to  wet 
Those  wrinkled  cheeks  with  youth's  remembered  tears. 
Ask  me  no  more^  but  let  the  silent  years 
Be  closed  and  cered  over  their  memory 
As  yon  mute  marble  where  their  corpses  lie." 
I  urged  and  questioned  still,  she  told  me  how 
All  happened  —  but  the  cold  world  shall  not  know. 


TO  MRS.  SHELLEY 

(Bagni  di  Lucca). 

Venice,  Sunday  morning. 
August  23,  1818. 

My  dearest  Mary.  We  arrived  here  last  night  at 
twelve  o'clock,  and  it  is  now  before  breakfast  the  next 
morning.  I  can,  of  course,  tell  you  nothing  of  the  future  ; 
and  though  I  shall  not  close  this  letter  till  post  time,  yet  I 
do  not  know  exactly  when  that  is.  Yet,  if  you  are  very 
[59] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

impatient,  look  along  the  letter  and  you  will  see  another 
date,  when  I  may  have  something  to  relate. 

I  came  from  Padua  hither  in  a  gondola,  and  the  gondo- 
liere,  among  other  things,  without  any  hint  on  my  part, 
began  talking  of  Lord  Byron.  He  said  he  was  a  giov- 
inoUo  Inglese,  with  a  nome  sir avag ante,  who  lived  very 
luxuriously,  and  sjjent  great  sums  of  money.  This  man, 
it  seems,  was  one  of  Lord  Byron^s  gondolieri.  No  sooner 
liad  we  arrived  at  the  inn,  than  the  waiter  began  talking 
about  him  —  said,  that  he  frequented  Mrs.  H.'s  conversa- 
zioni very  much. 

Our  journey  from  Florence  to  Padua  contained  nothing 
which  may  not  be  related  another  time.  At  Padua,  as  I 
said,  we  took  a  gondola — and  left  it  at  three  o'clock. 
These  gondolas  are  the  most  beautiful  and  convenient 
boats  in  the  world.  They  are  finely  carpeted  and  furnished 
with  black,  and  painted  black.  The  couches  on  which  you 
lean  are  extraordinarily  soft,  and  are  so  disposed  as  to  be 
the  most  comfortable  to  those  who  lean  or  sit.  The 
windows  have  at  will  either  Venetian  plate-glass  flowered, 
or  Venetian  blinds,  or  blinds  of  black  cloth  to  shut  out  the 
light.  The  weather  here  is  extremely  cold  — indeed,  some- 
times very  painfully  so,  and  yesterday  it  began  to  rain. 
We  passed  the  laguna  in  the  middle  of  the  night  in  a 
most  violent  storm  of  wind,  rain,  and  lightning.  It  was 
very  curious  to  observe  the  elements  above  in  a  state  of 
such  tremendous  convulsions,  and  the  surface  of  the  water 
almost  calm ;  for  these  lagunas,  though  five  miles  broad,  a 
space  enough  in  a  storm  to  sink  a  gondola,  are  so  shallow 
that  the  boatmen  drive  the  boat  along  with  a  pole.  The 
[60] 


THE   YEAR   1818 

sea-water,  furiously  agitated  by  the  wind,  slione  with 
sparkles  like  stars.  Yenice,  now  hidden  and  now  disclosed 
by  the  driving  rain,  shone  dimly  with  its  lights.  We 
were  all  this  while  safe  and  comfortable.  Well,  adieu, 
dearest :  I  shall,  as  Miss  Byron  says,^  resume  the  pen  in 
the  evening. 

Sunday  Night,  5  o'clock  in  the  Morning. 
Well,  I  will  try  to  relate  everything  in  its  order. 

At  three  o'clock  I  called  on  Lord  Byron :  he  was  delighted 
to  see  me. 

He  took  me  in  his  gondola  across  the  laguna  to  a  long 
sandy  island,  which  defends  Venice  from  the  Adriatic. 
When  we  disembarked,  we  found  his  horses  waiting  for  us, 
and  we  rode  along  the  sands  of  the  sea,  talking.  Our 
conversation  consisted  in  histories  of  his  wounded  feelings, 
and  questions  as  to  my  affairs,  and  great  professions  of 
friendship  and  regard  for  me.  He  said,  that  if  he  had 
been  in  England  at  the  time  of  the  Chancery  ^  affair,  he 
would  have  moved  heaven  and  earth  to  have  prevented 
such  a  decision.  We  talked  of  literary  matters,  his 
Pourth  Canto,^  which,  he  says,  is  very  good,  and  indeed 
repeated  some  stanzas  of  great  energy  to  me. 

^  i.e.,  Harriet  Byron,  in  Richardson's  novel  of  "  Sir  Charles  Grandi- 
son."  —  Ed. 

^  An  allusion  to  the  decision  of  Chancellor  Eldon  whereby  Shelley's  two 
children  by  his  first  maiTiage  were  denied  to  him  and  placed  under  the  care 
of  their  maternal  grandfather. 

8  Of  "Childe  Harold." 

[61] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN  ITALY 

EsTE,  October  8,  1818. 

We  left  the  Baths  of  Lucca^  I  think,  the  day  after  I 
wrote  to  you  —  on  a  visit  to  Venice  —  partly  for  the  sake 
of  seeing  the  city.  ...  I  saw  Lord  Byron,  and  really 
hardly  knew  him  again;  he  is  changed  into  the  liveliest 
and  happiest-looking  man  I  ever  met.  He  read  me  the 
first  canto  of  his  "  Don  Juan  "  —  a  thing  in  the  style  of 
Beppo,  but  infinitely  better,  and  dedicated  to  Southey,  in 
ten  or  a  dozen  stanzas,  more  like  a  mixture  of  wormwood 
and  verdigris  than  satire.  Venice  is  a  wonderfully  fine 
city.  The  approach  to  it  over  the  laguna,  with  its  domes 
and  turrets  glittering  in  a  long  line  over  the  blue  waves,  is 
one  of  the  finest  architectural  delusions  in  the  world.  It 
seems  to  have  —  and  literally  it  has  —  its  foundations  in  the 
sea.  The  silent  streets  are  paved  with  water,  and  you  hear 
nothing  but  the  dashing  of  the  oars,  and  the  occasional 
cries  of  the  gondolieri.  I  heard  nothing  of  Tasso.  The 
gondolas  themselves  are  things  of  a  most  romantic  and 
picturesque  appearance  ;  I  can  only  compare  them  to  moths 
of  which  a  coffin  might  have  been  the  chrysalis.  They  are 
hung  with  black,  and  painted  black,  and  carpeted  with 
grey ;  they  curl  at  the  prow  and  stern,  and  at  the  former 
there  is  a  nondescript  beak  of  shining  steel,  which  glitters 
at  the  end  of  its  long  black  mass. 

The  Doge's  palace,  with  its  library,  is  a  fine  monument 
of  aristocratic  power.  I  saw  the  dungeons,  where  these 
scoundrels  used  to  torment  their  victims.  They  are  of 
three  kinds  —  one  adjoining  the  place  of  trial,  where  the 
prisoners  destined  to  immediate  execution  were  kept.  I 
[62] 


Ql\  CECILIA  by  Uapliad. 


"  You  funjet  that  it  is  a  pie/ are  (is  you  look  at  it :  and  yet 
it  is  most  unlike  any  of  those  things  which  we  call  reality."" 

—  Letter  from  Bologna,  p.  64. 


THE   YEAR   1818 

could  not  descend  into  them,  because  the  day  on  which  I 
visited  it  was  festa.  Another  under  the  leads  of  the  pal- 
ace, where  the  sufferers  were  roasted  to  death  or  madness 
by  the  ardours  of  an  Italian  sun :  and  others  called  the 
Pozzi  —  or  wells,  deep  underneath,  and  communicating 
with  those  on  the  roof  by  secret  passages  —  where  the 
prisoners  were  confined  sometimes  half  up  to  their  middles 
in  stinking  water.  When  the  French  came  here,  they 
found  only  one  old  man  in  the  dungeons,  and  he  could  not 
speak.  But  Venice,  which  was  once  a  tyrant,  is  now  the 
next  worse  thing,  a  slave ;  for  in  fact  it  ceased  to  be  free, 
or  worth  our  regret  as  a  nation,  from  the  moment  that  the 
oligarchy  usurped  the  rights  of  the  people.  Yet,  I  do  not 
imagine  that  it  was  ever  so  degraded  as  it  has  been  since  the 
French,  and  especially  the  Austrian  yoke.  The  Austrians 
take  sixty  per  cent,  in  taxes,  and  impose  free  quarters  on 
the  inhabitants.  A  horde  of  German  soldiers,  as  vicious 
and  more  disgusting  than  the  Venetians  themselves,  insult 
these  miserable  people.  I  had  no  conception  of  the  excess 
to  which  avarice,  cowardice,  superstition,  ignorance,  pas- 
sionless lust,  and  all  the  inexpressible  brutalities  which  de- 
grade human  nature,  could  be  carried,  until  I  had  passed  a 
few  days  at  Venice. 

We  have  been  living  this  last  month  near  the  little  town 
from  which  I  date  this  letter,  in  a  very  pleasant  villa  which 
has  been  lent  to  us,  and  we  are  now  on  the  point  of  pro- 
ceeding to  Florence,  Eome,  and  Naples  —  at  which  last 
city  we  shall  spend  the  winter,  and  return  northwards  in 
the  spring.  Behind  us  here  are  the  Euganean  hills,  not  so 
beautiful  as  those  of  the  Bagni  di  Lucca,  with  Arqua, 
[63] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

"where  Petrarch's  house  and  tomb  are  religiously  preserved 
and  visited.  At  the  end  of  our  garden  is  an  extensive 
Gothic  castle^  now  the  habitation  of  owls  and  bats^  where 
the  Medici  family  resided  before  they  came  to  Florence. 
We  see  before  us  the  wide  flat  plains  of  Lombardy,  in 
which  we  see  the  sun  and  moon  rise  and  set^  and  the  eve- 
ning star,  and  all  the  golden  magnificence  of  autumnal 
clouds.     But  I  reserve  wonder  for  Naples. 

I  have  been  writing  —  and  indeed  have  just  finished  — 
the  first  act  of  a  lyric  and  classical  drama,  to  be  called 
"Prometheus  Unbound.'^  "Will  you  tell  me  what  there 
is  in  Cicero  about  a  drama  supposed  to  have  been  written 
by  ^schylus  under  this  title? 

Bologna,  Monday,  Nov.  9,  1818. 
I  have  seen  a  quantity  of  things  here  —  churches, 
palaces,  statues,  fountains,  and  pictures ;  and  my  brain 
is  at  this  moment  like  a  portfolio  of  an  architect,  or  a 
print-shop,  or  a  common-place  book.  I  will  try  to  re- 
collect something  of  what  I  have  seen;  for,  indeed,  it 
requires,  if  it  will  obey,  an  act  of  volition.  Pirst,  we  went 
to  the  cathedral,  which  contains  nothing  remarkable,  except 
a  kind  of  shrine,  or  rather  a  marble  canopy,  loaded  with 
sculptures,  and  supported  on  four  marble  columns.  We 
went  then  to  a  palace  —  I  am  sure  I  forget  the  name  of  it 
—  where  we  saw  a  large  gallery  of  pictures.  Of  course, 
in  a  picture  gallery  you  see  three  hundred  pictures  you 

forget,  for  one  you  remember. 

•  •  •  •  •  • 

We  saw  besides  one  picture  of  Raphael  —  St.  Cecilia : 
this  is  in  another  and  higher  style ;  you  forgot  that  it  is 
[64] 


THE   YEAR   1818 

a  picture  as  you  look  at  it ;  and  yet  it  is  most  unlike  any 
of  those  things  which  we  call  reality.  It  is  of  the  inspired 
and  ideal  kind,  and  seems  to  have  been  conceived  and 
executed  in  a  similar  state  of  feeling  to  that  which  pro- 
duced among  the  ancients  those  perfect  specimens  of  poetry 
and  sculpture  which  are  the  baffling  models  of  succeeding 
generations.  There  is  a  unity  and  a  perfection  in  it  of  an 
incommunicable  kind.  The  central  figure,  St.  Cecilia,  seems 
rapt  in  sueh  inspiration  as  produced  her  image  in  the 
painter's  mind ;  her  deep,  dark,  eloquent  eyes  lifted  up ; 
ter  chestnut  hair  flung  back  from  her  forehead — she  holds 
an  organ  in  her  hands  —  her  countenance,  as  it  were, 
calmed  by  the  depth  of  its  passion  and  rapture,  and  pene- 
trated throughout  with  the  Avarm  and  radiant  light  of  life. 
She  is  listening  to  the  music  of  heaven,  and,  as  I  imagine, 
has  just  ceased  to  sing,  for  the  four  figures  that  surround 
her  evidently  point,  by  their  attitudes,  towards  her ;  par- 
ticularly St.  John,  who,  with  a  tender  yet  impassioned 
gesture,  bends  his  countenance  towards  her,  languid  with 
the  depth  of  his  emotion.  At  her  feet  lie  various  instru- 
ments of  music,  broken  and  unstrung.  Of  the  colouring 
I  do  not  speak ;  it  eclipses  nature,  yet  it  has  all  her  truth 
and  softness. 

We  saw  some  pictures  of  Domenichino,  Carracci,  Albano, 
Guercino,  Elisabetta  Sirani.  The  two  former,  remember, 
I  do  not  pretend  to  taste  —  I  cannot  admire.  Of  the  lat- 
ter there  are  some  beautiful  Madonnas.  There  are  several 
of  Guercino,  which  they  said  were  very  fine.  I  dare  say 
they  were,  for  the  strength  and  complication  of  his  figures 
made  my  head  turn  round.  One,  indeed,  was  certainly 
5  [65  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN  ITALY 

powerful.  It  was  the  representation  of  the  founder  of  the 
Carthusians  exercising  his  austerities  in  the  desert,  with  a 
youth  as  his  attendant,  kneeling  beside  him  at  an  altar :  on 
another  altar  stood  a  skull  and  a  crucifix ;  and  around  were 
the  rocks  and  the  trees  of  the  wilderness.  I  never  saw 
such  a  figure  as  this  fellow.  His  face  was  wrinkled  like  a 
dried  snake's  skin,  and  drawn  in  long  hard  lines  :  his  very 
hands  were  wrinkled.  He  looked  like  an  animated  mummy. 
He  was  clothed  in  a  loose  dress  of  death-coloured  flannel, 
such  as  you  might  fancy  a  shroud  might  be,  after  it  had 
wrapt  a  corpse  a  month  or  two.  It  had  a  yellow,  putrefied, 
ghastly  hue,  which  it  cast  on  all  the  objects  around,  so  that 
the  hands  and  face  of  the  Carthusian  and  his  companion 
were  jaundiced  by  this  sepulchral  glimmer.  Why  write 
books  against  religion,  when  we  may  hang  up  such 
pictures  ?  But  the  world  either  will  not  or  cannot  see. 
The  gloomy  effect  of  this  was  softened,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  its  sublimity  diminished,  by  the  figure  of  the  Virgin 
and  Child  in  the  sky,  looking  down  with  admiration  on  the 
monk,  and  a  beautiful  flying  figure  of  an  angel.  .  .  . 

I  have  just  returned  from  a  moonlight  walk  through 
Bologna.  It  is  a  city  of  colonnades,  and  the  effect  of 
moonlight  is  strikingly  picturesque.  There  are  two  towers 
here  —  one  four  hundred  feet  high  —  ugly  things  built  of 
brick,  which  lean  both  different  ways ;  and  with  the 
delusion  of  moonlight  shadows,  you  might  almost  fancy 
that  the  city  is  rocked  by  an  earthquake.  They  say  they 
were  built  so  on  purpose ;  but  I  observe  in  all  the  plain  of 
Lombardy  the  church  towers  lean. 

[66] 


rPHE  Virgin  appearing  to  Saint  Bruno. 
By  Guert'ino.     In  Bologna  Gallery. 


—  See  Letter  from  Bologna,  p.  CG. 


THE   YEAR   1818 

Rome,  November  20, 1818. 

I  take  advantage  of  this  rainy  evening,  and  before  Rome 
has  effaced  all  other  recollections,  to  endeavour  to  recall 
the  vanished  scenes  through  which  we  have  passed.  "We 
left  Bologna,  I  forget  on  what  day,  and  passing  by  Rimini, 
Fano,  and  Foligno,  along  the  Yia  Flaminia  and  Terni, 
have  arrived  at  Rome  after  ten  days'  somewhat  tedious, 
but  most  interesting,  journey.  The  most  remarkable 
things  we  saw  were  the  Roman  excavations  in  the  rock, 
and  the  great  waterfall  of  Terni,  Of  course  you  have 
heard  that  there  are  a  Roman  bridge  and  a  triumphal  arch 
at  Rimini,  and  in  what  excellent  taste  they  are  built.  The 
bridge  is  not  unlike  the  Strand  bridge,  but  more  bold  in 
proportion,  and  of  course  infinitely  smaller.  From  Fano 
we  left  the  coast  of  the  Adriatic,  and  entered  the  Apen- 
nines, following  the  course  of  the  Metaurus,  the  banks  of 
which  were  the  scene  of  defeat  of  Asdrubal :  and  it  is  said 
(you  can  refer  to  the  book)  that  Livy  has  given  a  very 
exact  and  animated  description  of  it.  I  forget  aU  about 
it,  but  shall  look  as  soon  as  our  boxes  are  opened.  Fol- 
lowing the  river,  the  vale  contracts,  the  banks  of  the  river 
become  steep  and  rocky,  the  forests  of  oak  and  ilex  which 
overhang  its  emerald-coloured  stream,  cling  to  their  abrupt 
precipices.  About  four  miles  from  Fossombrone,  the 
river  forces  for  itself  a  passage  between  the  walls  and  top- 
pling precipices  of  the  loftiest  Apennines,  which  are  here 
rifted  to  their  base,  and  undermined  by  the  narrow  and 
tumultuous  torrent.  It  was  a  cloudy  morning,  and  we 
had  no  conception  of  the  scene  that  awaited  us.  Suddenly 
[67] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN   ITALY 

the  low  clouds  were  struck  by  the  clear  north  wind,  and 
like  curtains  of  the  finest  gauze,  removed  one  by  one, 
were  drawn  from  before  the  mountain,  whose  heaven- 
cleaving  pinnacles  and  black  crags  overhanging  one  an- 
other, stood  at  length  defined  in  the  light  of  day.  The 
road  runs  parallel  to  the  river,  at  a  considerable  height, 
and  is  carried  through  the  mountain  by  a  vaulted  cavern. 
The  marks  of  the  chisel  of  the  legionaries  of  the  Roman 
Consul  are  yet  evident. 

We  passed  on  day  after  day,  until  we  came  to  Spoleto, 
I  think  the  most  romantic  city  I  ever  saw.  There  is  here 
an  aqueduct  of  astonishing  elevation,  which  unites  two 
rocky  mountains,  — there  is  the  path  of  a  torrent  below, 
whitening  the  green  dell  with  its  broad  and  barren  track 
of  stones,  and  above  there  is  a  castle,  apparently  of  great 
strength  and  of  tremendous  magnitude,  which  overhangs 
the  city,  and  whose  marble  bastions  are  perpendicular  with 
the  precipice.  I  never  saw  a  more  impressive  picture;  in 
which  the  shapes  of  nature  are  of  the  grandest  order,  but 
over  which  the  creations  of  man,  sublime  from  their  an- 
tiquity and  greatness,  seem  to  predominate.  The  castle 
was  built  by  Belisarius  or  Narses,  I  forget  which,  but  was 
of  that  epoch. 

From  Spoleto  we  went  to  Terni,  and  saw  the  cataract 
of  the  Velino.  The  glaciers  of  Montanvert  and  the  source 
of  the  Arveiron  is  the  grandest  spectacle  I  ever  saw. 
This  is  the  second.  Imagine  a  river  sixty  feet  in  breadth, 
with  a  vast  volume  of  waters,  the  outlet  of  a  great  lake 
among  the  higher  mountains,  falling  300  feet  into  a  sight- 
less gulf  of  snow-white  vapour,  which  bursts  up  for  ever 
[68] 


w 


VTEUFALL  at  Tirni. 


-  See  Letter  from  Rome,  p.  C8. 


THE   YEAR  1818 

and  for  ever  from  a  circle  of  black  crags,  and  thence  leap- 
ing downwards,  makes  five  or  six  other  cataracts,  each 
fifty  or  a  hundred  feet  high,  which  exhibit,  on  a  smaller 
scale,  and  with  beautiful  and  sublime  variety,  the  same 
appearances.  But  words  —  and  far  less  could  painting  — 
will  not  express  it.  Stand  upon  the  brink  of  the  platform 
of  clifP,  which  is  directly  opposite.  You  see  the  ever- 
moving  water  stream  down.  It  comes  in  thick  and  tawny 
folds,  flaking  off  like  solid  snow  gliding  down  a  mountain. 
It  does  not  seem  hollow  within,  but  without  it  is  unequal, 
like  the  folding  of  linen  thrown  carelessly  down ;  your  eye 
follows  it,  and  it  is  lost  below ;  not  in  the  black  rocks 
which  gird  it  around,  but  in  its  own  foam  and  spray,  in 
the  cloud-like  vapours  boiling  up  from  below,  which  is 
not  like  rain,  nor  mist,  nor  spray,  nor  foam,  but  water,  in 
a  shape  wholly  unlike  anything  I  ever  saw  before.  It  is 
as  white  as  snow,  but  thick  and  impenetrable  to  the  eye. 
The  very  imagination  is  bewildered  in  it.  A  thunder 
comes  up  from  the  abyss  wonderful  to  hear ;  for,  though 
it  ever  sounds,  it  is  never  the  same,  but,  modulated  by  the 
changing  motion,  rises  and  falls  intermittingly ;  we  passed 
half  an  hour  in  one  spot  looking  at  it,  and  thought  but  a 
few  minutes  had  gone  by.  The  surrounding  scenery  is,  in 
its  kind,  the  loveliest  and  most  sublime  that  can  be  con- 
ceived. In  our  first  walk  we  passed  through  some  olive 
groves,  of  large  and  ancient  trees,  whose  hoary  and  twisted 
trunks  leaned  in  all  directions.  We  then  crossed  a  path 
of  orange  trees  by  the  river  side,  laden  with  their  golden 
fruit,  and  came  to  a  forest  of  ilex  of  a  large  size,  whose 
evergreen  and  acorn-bearing  boughs  were  intertwined  over 
[69] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

our  winding  path.  Around^  hemming  in  the  narrow  vale, 
were  pinnacles  of  lofty  mountains  of  pyramidical  rock 
clothed  with  all  evergreen  plants  and  trees;  the  vast  pine 
whose  feathery  foliage  trembled  in  the  blue  air,  the  ilex, 
that  ancestral  inhabitant  of  these  mountains,  the  arbutus 
with  its  crimson-coloured  fruit  and  glittering  leaves. 
After  an  hour's  walk,  we  came  beneath  the  cataract  of 
Terni,  within  the  distance  of  half  a  mile ;  nearer  you  can- 
not approach,  for  the  Nar,  which  has  here  its  confluence 
with  the  Velino,  bars  the  passage.  We  then  crossed  the 
river  formed  by  this  confluence,  over  a  narrow  natural 
bridge  of  rock,  and  saw  the  cataract  from  the  platform  I 
first  mentioned.  We  think  of  spending  some  time  next 
year  near  this  waterfall.  The  inn  is  very  bad,  or  we 
should  have  stayed  there  longer. 

We  came  from  Terni  last  night  to  a  place  called  Nepi, 
and  to-day  arrived  at  Eome  across  the  much-belied  Cam- 
pagna  di  Roma,  a  place  I  confess  infinitely  to  my  taste. 
It  is  a  flattering  picture  of  Bagshot  Heath.  But  then 
there  are  the  Apennines  on  one  side,  and  Rome  and  St. 
Peter's  on  the  other,  and  it  is  intersected  by  perpetual  dells 
clothed  with  arbutus  and  ilex. 

Naples,  December  22,  1818. 

Since  I  last  wrote  to  you,  I  have  seen  the  ruins  of 
Rome,  the  Yatican,  St.  Peter's,  and  all  the  miracles  of 
ancient  and  modern  art  contained  in  that  majestic  city. 
The  impression  of  it  exceeds  anything  I  have  ever  experi- 
enced in  my  travels.  We  stayed  there  only  a  week,  intend- 
ing to  return  at  the  end  of  February,  and  devote  two  or 
[70] 


I  § 


^ 


2    c 


THE   YEAR   1818 

three  months  to  its  mines  of  inexhaustible  contemplation, 

to  which  period  I  refer  you  for  a  minute  account  of  it. 

We  visited  the  Forum  and  the  ruins  of  the  Coliseum  every 

day.     The  Coliseum  is  unlike  any  work  of  human  hands  I 

ever  saw  before.     It  is  of  enormous  height  and  circuit, 

and  the  arches  built  of  massy   stones   are  piled  on  one 

another,  and  jut  into  the  blue  air,  shattered  into  the  forms 

of  overhanging  rocks.     It  has  been  changed  by  time  into 

the  image  of  an  amphitheatre  of  rocky  hills  overgrown  by 

the  wild  olive,  the  myrtle,  and  the  iig-tree,  and  threaded 

by  little  paths,  which  wind  among  its  ruined   stairs  and 

immeasurable  galleries :  the  copse-wood  overshadows  you 

as  you  wander  through  its  labyrinths,  and  the  wild  weeds 

of  this  climate  of  flowers  bloom  under  your   feet.     The 

arena  is  covered  with  grass,  and  pierces,  like  the  skirts  of 

a  natural  plain,  the  chasms  of  the  broken  arches  around. 

But  a  small  part  of  the  exterior  circumference  remains  — 

it  is  exquisitely  hght  and  beautiful;  and  the  effect  of  the 

perfection    of    its   architecture,    adorned    with    ranges    of 

Corinthian  pilasters,  supporting  a  bold  cornice,  is  such  as 

to  diminish  the  effect  of  its  greatness.     The  interior  is  all 

ruin.     I  can  scarcely  believe  that   when  encrusted  with 

Dorian  marble  and  ornamented  by  columns   of  Egyptian 

ffranite  its  effect  could  have  been  so  sublime  and  so  im- 
o 

pressive  as  in  its  present  state.  It  is  open  to  the  sky,  and 
it  was  the  clear  and  sunny  weather  of  the  end  of  November 
in  this  climate  when  we  visited  it,  day  after  day. 

Near  it  is  the  Arch  of  Constantine,  or  rather  the  Arch  of 
Trajan ;  for  the  servile  and  avaricious  senate  of  degraded 
Eome  ordered  that  the  monument  of  his  predecessor  should 
[71  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

be  demolished  in  order  to  dedicate  one  to  the  Christian 
reptile,  who  had  crept  among  the  blood  of  his  murdered 
family  to  the  supreme  power.  It  is  exquisitely  beautiful 
and  perfect.  The  Forum  is  a  plain  in  the  midst  of  Eome, 
a  kind  of  desert  full  of  heaps  of  stones  and  pits,  and  though 
so  near  the  habitations  of  men,  is  the  most  desolate  place 
you  can  conceive.  -  The  ruins  of  temples  stand  in  and 
around  it,  shattered  columns  and  ranges  of  others  com- 
plete, supporting  cornices  of  exquisite  workmanship,  and 
vast  vaults  of  shattered  domes  distmct  with  regular  com- 
partments, once  filled  with  sculptures  of  ivory  or  brass. 
The  temples  of  Jupiter,  and  Concord,  and  Peace,  and  the 
Sun,  and  the  Moon,  and  Vesta,  are  all  within  a  short  dis- 
tance of  this  spot.  Behold  the  wrecks  of  what  a  great 
nation  once  dedicated  to  the  abstractions  of  the  mind  ! 
Rome  is  a  city,  as  it  were,  of  the  dead,  or  rather  of  those 
who  cannot  die,  and  who  survive  the  puny  generations 
which  inhabit  and  pass  over  the  spot  which  they  have  made 
sacred  to  eternity.  In  Rome,  at  least  in  the  first  enthusi- 
asm of  your  recognition  of  ancient  time,  you  see  nothing 
of  the  Italians.  The  nature  of  the  city  assists  the  delusion, 
for  its  vast  and  antique  walls  describe  a  circumference  of 
sixteen  miles,  and  thus  the  population  is  thinly  scattered 
over  this  space,  nearly  as  great  as  London.  "Wide  wild 
fields  are  enclosed  within  it,  and  there  are  grassy  lanes  and 
copses  winding  among  the  ruins,  and  a  great  green  hill, 
lonely  and  bare,  which  overhangs  the  Tiber.  The  gardens 
of  the  modern  palaces  are  like  wild  woods  of  cedar,  and 
cypress,  and  pine,  and  the  neglected  walks  are  overgrown 
with  weeds.  The  English  burying-place  is  a  green  slope 
[72] 


THE   YEAR   1818 

near  the  walls,  under  the  pyramidal  tomb  of  Cestius,  and 
is,  I  think,  the  most  beautiful  and  solemn  cemetery  I  ever 
beheld.  To  see  the  sun  shining  on  its  bright  grass,  fresh^ 
when  we  first  visited  it,  with  the  autumnal  dews^  and  hear 
the  whispering  of  the  wind  among  the  leaves  of  the  trees 
which  have  overgrown  the  tomb  of  Cestius,  and  the  soil 
which  is  stirring  in  the  sun-warm  earthy  and  to  mark  the 
tombs,  mostly  of  women  and  young  people  who  were  buried 
there,  one  might,  if  one  were  to  die,  desire  the  sleep  they 
seem  to  sleep.  Such  is  the  human  mind,  and  so  it  peoples 
with  its  wishes  vacancy  and  oblivion. 

STANZAS 

WRITTEN    IN    DEJECTION,    NEAR    NAPLES 
I 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear. 

The  waves  are  dancing  fast  and  bright, 

Blue  isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 
The  purple  noon's  transparent  might, 
The  breath  of  the  moist  earth  is  light. 

Around  its  unexpanded  buds  ; 
Like  many  a  voice  of  one  delight, 

The  winds,  the  birds,  the  ocean  floods, 
The  City's  voice  itself  is  soft  like  Solitude's. 

II 
I  see  the  Deep's  untrampled  floor 

With  green  and  purple  seaweeds  strewn  j 
I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore. 

Like  light  dissolved  in  star-showers,  thrown : 
[73] 


WITH   SHELLEY   LN   ITALY 

I  sit  upon  the  sands  alone,, 
The  lightning  of  the  noontide  ocean 
Is  flashing  round  me,  and  a  tone 
Arises  from  its  measured  motion, 
How  sweet !  did  any  heart  now  share  in  my  emotion. 

ni 

Alas  !     I  have  nor  hope  nor  health, 
Nor  peace  within  nor  calm  around. 

Nor  that  content  surpassing  wealth 
The  sage  in  meditation  found. 
And  walked  with  inward  glory  crowned  — 

Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  love,  nor  leisure. 
Others  I  see  whom  these  surround  — 

Smiling  they  live,  and  call  life  pleasure;  — 
To  me  that  cup  has  been  dealt  in  another  measure. 

IV 

Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild. 

Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are; 

I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child, 
And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 
Which  I  have  borne  and  yet  must  bear, 

Till  death  like  sleep  might  steal  on  me. 
And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 

My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 
Breathe  o'er  my  dying  brain  its  last  monotony. 

[74] 


THE   YEAR   1818 

V 

Some  might  lament  that  I  were  cold. 
As  I,  when  this  sweet  day  is  gone, 
Which  my  lost  heart,  too  soon  grown  old, 
Insults  with  this  untimely  moan ; 
They  might  lament  —  for  I  am  one 
"Whom  men  love  not,  —  and  yet  regret, 
Unlike  this  day,  which,  when  the  sun 
Shall  on  its  stainless  glory  set. 
Will  linger,  though  enjoyed,  like  joy  in  memory  yet. 
December,  1818. 

Naples,  December  22,  1818. 

External  nature  in  these  delightful  regions  contrasts 
with  and  compensates  for  the  deformity  and  degradation  of 
humanity.  We  have  a  lodging  divided  from  the  sea  by 
the  royal  gardens,  and  from  our  windows  we  see  perpetually 
the  blue  waters  of  the  bay,  forever  changing,  yet  forever 
the  same,  and  encompassed  by  the  mountainous  island  of 
Caprese,  the  lofty  peaks  which  overhang  Salerno,  and  the 
woody  hill  of  Posilipo,  whose  promontories  hide  from  us 
Misenum  and  the  lofty  isle  Inarime.i  -^vhich,  with  its 
divided  summit,  forms  the  opposite  horn  of  the  bay.  From 
the  pleasant  walks  of  the  garden  we  see  Vesuvius ;  a  smoke 
by  day  and  a  fire  by  night  is  seen  upon  its  summit,  and  the 
glassy  sea  often  reflects  its  light  or  shadow.  The  cHmate 
is  delicious.  We  sit  without  a  fire,  with  the  windows 
open,  and  have  almost  all  the  productions  of  an  English 
summer.     The  weather  is  usually  like  what  Wordsworth 

i  The  ancient  name  of  Ischia.  —  [Note  by  Mrs.  Shelley.] 

[75] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

calls  "  the  jBrst  fine  day  of  March  " ;  sometimes  very  much 
warmer,  though  perhaps  it  wants  that  "  each  minute 
sweeter  than  before/''  which  gives  an  intoxicating  sweetness 
to  the  awakening  of  the  earth  from  its  "Winter's  sleep  in 
England.  We  have  made  two  excursions,  one  to  Baise  and 
one  to  Yesuvius,  and  we  propose  to  visit,  successively,  the 
islands,  Psestum,  Pompeii,  and  Beneventum. 

We  set  off  an  hour  after  sunrise  one  radiant  morning  in 
a  little  boat ;  there  was  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky,  nor  a  wave 
upon  the  sea,  which  was  so  translucent  that  you  could 
see  the  hollow  caverns  clothed  with  the  glaucous  sea-moss, 
and  the  leaves  and  branches  of  those  delicate  weeds  that  pave 
the  unequal  bottom  of  the  water.  As  noon  approached, 
the  heat,  and  especially  the  light,  became  intense.  We 
passed  Posilipo,  and  came  first  to  the  eastern  point  of  the 
Bay  of  Pozzuoli,  which  is  within  the  great  Bay  of  Naples, 
and  which  again  encloses  that  of  Baiae.  Here  are  lofty 
rocks  and  craggy  islets,  with  arches  and  portals  of  precipice 
standing  in  the  sea,  and  enormous  caverns,  which  echoed 
faintly  with  the  murmur  of  the  languid  tide.  This  is 
called  La  Scuola  di  Yirgilio.  We  then  went  directly 
across  to  the  promontory  of  Misenum,  leaving  the  pre- 
cipitous island  of  Nisida  on  the  right.  Here  we  were  con- 
ducted to  see  the  Mare  Morto,  and  the  Elysian  fields ;  the 
spot  on  which  Virgil  places  the  scenery  of  the  Sixth 
iBneid.  Though  extremely  beautiful,  as  a  lake,  and  woody 
hills,  and  this  divine  sky  must  make  it,  I  confess  my  dis- 
appointment. The  guide  showed  us  an  antique  cemetery, 
where  the  niches  used  for  placing  the  cinerary  urns  of  the 
dead  yet  remain.  We  then  coasted  the  Bay  of  Baise  to  the 
.    [76] 


THE   YEAR   1818 

left,  in  which  we  saw  many  picturesque  and  interesting 
ruins ;  but  I  have  to  remark  that  we  never  disembarked 
but  we  were  disappointed  —  while  from  the  boat  the  effect 
of  the  scenery  was  inexpressibly  delightful.  The  colours  of 
the  water  and  the  air  breathe  over  all  thincfs  here  the  radi- 
ance  of  their  own  beauty.  After  passing  the  bay  of  Baige, 
and  observing  the  ruins  of  its  antique  grandeur  standing 
like  rocks  in  the  transparent  sea  under  our  boat,  we  landed 
to  visit  Lake  Avernus.  We  passed  through  the  cavern  of 
the  Sibyl  (not  VirgiFs  Sibyl),  which  pierces  one  of  the  hills 
which  circumscribe  the  lake,  and  came  to  a  calm  and  lovely 
basin  of  water,  surrounded  by  dark  woody  hills,  and  pro- 
foundly solitary.  Some  vast  ruins  of  the  temple  of  Pluto 
stand  on  a  lawny  hill  on  one  side  of  it,  and  are  reflected  in 
its  windless  mirror.  It  is  far  more  beautiful  than  the  Ely- 
sian  fields  —  but  there  are  all  the  materials  for  beauty  in  the 
latter,  and  the  Avernus  was  once  a  chasm  of  deadly  and  pes- 
tilential vapours.  About  half  a  mile /-from  Avernus,  a  high 
hill,  called  Monte  Nuovo,  was  thrown  up  by  volcanic  fire. 
Passing  onward  we  came  to  Pozzuoli,  the  ancient 
Dicsearchea,  where  there  are  the  columns  remaining  of  a 
temple  to  Serapis,  and  the  wreck  of  an  enormous  amphi- 
theatre, changed,  like  the  Coliseum,  into  a  natural  hill  by 
the  overteeming  vegetation.  Here  also  is  the  Solfatara, 
of  which  there  is  a  poetical  description  in  the  Civil  War  of 
Petronius,  beginning  —  "  Est  locus,^'  ^  and  in  which  the 

1  Est  locus  exciso  penitus  demersus  hiatu, 
Parthenopem  inter,  magnseque  Dicarchidos  arva, 
Cocytia  perfusus  aqua,  nam  spiritus,  extra 
Qui  font,  eflfosus  fimesto  spargitur  sestu,  &c. 

Peteonh  Aebitei  Satyricon. 

[  ^77  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN  ITALY 

verses  of  the  poet  are  infinitely  finer  than  what  he  describes, 
for  it  is  not  a  very  curious  place.  After  seeing  these  things 
we  returned  by  moonlight  to  Naples  in  our  boat.  What 
colours  there  were  in  the  sky,  what  radiance  in  the  evening 
star,  and  how  the  moon  was  encompassed  by  a  light 
unknown  to  our  regions  ! 

Our  next  excursion  was  to  Vesuvius.  We  went  to 
Eesina  in  a  carriage,  where  Mary  and  I  mounted  mules, 

and  C was  carried  in  a  chair  on  the  shoulders  of  four 

men,  much  like  a  member  of  parliament  after  he  has  gained 
his  election,  and  looking,  with  less  reason,  quite  as 
frightened.  So  we  arrived  at  the  hermitage  of  San  Sal- 
vador, where  an  old  hermit,  belted  with  rope,  set  forth  the 
plates  for  our  refreshment. 

Vesuvius  is,  after  the  glaciers,  the  most  impressive  ex- 
hibition of  the  energies  of  nature  I  ever  saw.  It  has  not 
the  immeasurable  greatness,  the  overpowering  magnifi- 
cence, nor,  above  all,  the  radiant  beauty  of  the  glaciers ;  but 
it  has  all  their  character  of  tremendous  and  irresistible 
strength.  From  Eesina  to  the  hermitage  you  wind  up  the 
mountain,  and  cross  a  vast  stream  of  hardened  lava,  which 
is  an  actual  image  of  the  waves  of  the  sea,  changed  into 
hard  black  stone  by  enchantment.  The  lines  of  the  boil- 
ing flood  seem  to  hang  in  the  air,  and  it  is  difficult  to  be- 
lieve that  the  billows  which  seem  hurrying  down  upon  you 
are  not  actually  in  motion.  This  plain  was  once  a  sea  of 
liquid  fire.  From  the  hermitage  we  crossed  another  vast 
stream  of  lava,  and  then  went  on  foot  up  the  cone  —  this 
is  the  only  part  of  the  ascent  in  which  there  is  any  diffi- 
culty, and  that  difficulty  lias  been  much  exaggerated.  It 
[78] 


o 

o 

>- 

I-' 

o 


THE   YEAR   1818 

is  composed  of  rocks  of  lava,  and  declivities  of  ashes ;  by 
ascending  tlie  former  and  descending  the  latter,  there  is 
very  little  fatigue.  On  the  summit  is  a  kind  of  irregular 
plain,  the  most  horrible  chaos  that  can  be  imagined ;  riven 
into  ghastly  chasms,  and  heaped  up  with  tumuli  of  great 
stones  and  cinders,  and  enormous  rocks  blackened  and 
calcined,  which  had  been  thrown  from  the  volcano  upon 
one  another  in  terrible  confusion.  In  the  midst  stands 
the  conical  hill  from  which  volumes  of  smoke,  and  the 
fountains  of  liquid  fire,  are  rolled  forth  forever.  The 
mountain  is  at  present  in  a  slight  state  of  eruption ;  and 
a  thick  heavy  white  smoke  is  perpetually  rolled  out, 
interrupted  by  enormous  columns  of  an  impenetrable  black 
bituminous  vapour,  which  is  hurled  up,  fold  after  fold,  into 
the  sky  with  a  deep  hollow  sound,  and  fiery  stones  are 
rained  down  from  its  darkness,  and  a  black  shower  of  ashes 
fell  even  where  we  sat.  The  lava,  like  the  glacier,  creeps 
on  perpetually,  with  a  crackling  sound  as  of  suppressed  fire. 
There  are  several  springs  of  lava;  and  in  one  place  it 
gushes  precipitously  over  a  high  crag,  rolling  down  the 
half-molten  rocks  and  its  own  overhanging  waves;  a 
cataract  of  quivering  fire.  We  approached  the  extremity 
of  one  of  the  rivers  of  lava;  it  is  about  twenty  feet  in 
breadth  and  ten  in  height ;  and  as  the  inclined  plane  was 
not  rapid,  its  motion  was  very  slow.  We  saw  the  masses 
of  its  dark  exterior  surface  detach  themselves  as  it  moved, 
and  betray  the  depth  of  the  liquid  flame.  In  the  day  the 
fire  is  but  slightly  seen ;  you  only  observe  a  tremulous 
motion  in  the  air,  and  streams  and  fountains  of  white 
sulphurous  smoke. 

.[79] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

At  length  we  saw  the  sun  sink  between  Caprese  and 
Inarime,  and^  as  the  darkness  increased^  the  effect  of  the 
fire  became  more  beautiful.  We  were,  as  it  were,  sur- 
rounded by  streams  and  cataracts  of  the  red  and  radiant 
fire;  and  in  the  midst,  from  the  column  of  bituminous 
smoke  shot  up  into  the  air,  fell  the  vast  masses  of  rock, 
wliite  with  the  light  of  their  intense  heat,  leaving  behind 
them  through  the  dark  vapour  trains  of  splendour.  We 
descended  by  torch-light,  and  I  should  have  enjoyed  the 
scenery  on  my  return,  but  they  conducted  me,  I  know  not 
how,  to  the  hermitage  in  a  state  of  intense  bodily  suffering, 
the  worst  effect  of  which  was  spoiUng  the  pleasure  of  Mary 

and  C .     Our  guides  on  the  occasion  were  complete 

savages.  You  have  no  idea  of  the  horrible  cries  which 
they  suddenly  utter,  no  one  knows  why,  the  clamour,  the 

vociferation,  the  tumult.     C in  her  palanquin  suffered 

most  from  it;  and  when  I  had  gone  on  before,  they 
threatened  to  leave  her  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  which 
they  would  have  done  had  not  my  Italian  servant  promised 
them  a  beating,  after  which  they  became  quiet.  Nothing, 
however,  can  be  more  picturesque  than  the  gestures  and 
the  physiognomies  of  these  savage  people.  And  when,  in 
the  darkness  of  night,  they  unexpectedly  begin  to  sing  in 
chorus  some  fragments  of  their  wild  but  sweet  national 
music,  the  effect  is  exceedingly  fine. 

Naples,  Pebruary  25,  1819. 

There   was  a   Greek  city,  sixty  miles  to  the  south  of 
Naples  called  Posidonia,  now   Pesto,i  where  still  subsist 
1  Pesto  in  Italian,  Paestum  in  English.  —  Ed. 

[80] 


^ 


i  i-i 


'^    c    ^ 


:;  c"^ 


THE   YEAR   1818 

three  temples  of  Etruscan  ^  architecture,  one  almost  per- 
fect. From  this  city  we  have  just  returned.  The  weather 
was  most  unfavourable  for  our  expedition.  After  two 
months  of  cloudless  serenity,  it  began  raining  cats  and 
dogs.  The  first  night  we  slept  at  Salerno,  a  large  city 
situated  in  the  recess  of  a  deep  bay;  surrounded  with 
stupendous  mountains  of  the  same  name.  A  few  miles 
from  Torre  del  Greco  we  entered  on  the  pass  of  the 
mountains,  which  is  a  line  dividing  the  isthmus  of  those 
enormous  piles  of  rock  which  compose  the  southern  boun- 
dary of  the  Bay  of  Naples  and  the  northern  one  of  that  of 
Salerno.  On  one  side  is  a  lofty  conical  hill,  crowned  with 
the  turrets  of  a  ruined  castle,  and  cut  into  platforms  for 
cultivation ;  at  least  every  ravine  and  glen,  whose  precipi- 
tous sides  admitted  of  other  vegetation  than  that  of  the 
rock-rooted  ilex;  on  the  other,  the  sethereal  snowy  crags 
of  an  immense  mountain,  whose  terrible  lineaments  were 
at  intervals  concealed  or  disclosed  by  volumes  of  dense 
clouds,  rolling  under  the  tempest.  Half  a  mile  from  this 
spot,  between  orange  and  lemon  groves  of  a  lovely  village, 
suspended  as  it  were  on  an  ampliitheatral  precipice,  whose 
golden  globes  contrasted  with  the  white  walls  and  dark 
green  leaves  which  they  almost  outnumbered,  shone  the 
sea.  A  burst  of  the  declining  sunlight  illumined  it.  The 
road  led  along  the  brink  of  the  precipice  towards  Salerno. 
Nothing  could  be  more  glorious  than  the  scene.  The 
immense  mountains  covered  with  the  rare  and  divine  vege- 
tation of  this  climate,  with  many-folding  vales,  and  deep 
dark  recesses,  which  the  fancy  scarcely  could  penetrate, 

1  Doric,  not  Etruscan  architecture.  —  Ed. 
6  [81    ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

descended  from  their  snowy  summits  precipitously  to  the 
sea.  Before  us  was  Salerno,  built  into  a  declining  plain, 
between  the  mountains  and  the  sea.  Beyond,  the  other 
shore  of  sky-cleaving  mountains,  then  dim  with  the  mist 
of  tempest.  Underneath,  from  the  base  of  the  precipice 
where  the  road  conducted,  rocky  promontories  jutted  into 
the  sea,  covered  with  olive  and  ilex  woods,  or  with  the 
ruined  battlements  of  some  Norman  or  Saracen  fortress. 
We  slept  at  Salerno,  and  the  next  morning  before  day- 
break proceeded  to  Posidouia.  The  night  had  been  tem- 
pestuous, and  our  way  lay  by  the  sea  sand.  It  was  utterly 
dark,  except  when  the  long  line  of  wave  burst,  with  a 
sound  like  thunder,  beneath  the  starless  sky,  and  cast  up 
a  kind  of  mist  of  cold  white  lustre.  "When  morning  came, 
we  found  ourselves  travelling  in  a  wide  desert  plain,  per- 
petually interrupted  by  wild  irregular  glens,  and  bounded 
on  all  sides  by  the  Apennines  and  the  sea.  Sometimes 
it  was  covered  with  forest,  sometimes  dotted  with  under- 
wood, or  mere  tufts  of  fern  aad  furze,  and  the  wintry  dry 
tendrils  of  creeping  plants.  I  have  never,  but  in  the 
Alps,  seen  an  amphitheatre  of  mountains  so  magnificent. 
After  travelling  fifteen  miles  we  came  to  a  river,  the  bridge 
of  which  had  been  broken,  and  which  was  so  swollen  that 
the  ferry  would  not  take  the  carriage  across.  We  had, 
therefore,  to  walk  seven  miles  of  a  muddy  road,  which 
led  to  the  ancient  city  across  the  desolate  Maremma. 
The  air  was  scented  with  the  sweet  smell  of  violets  of  an 
extraordinary  size  and  beauty.  At  length  we  saw  the 
sublime  and  massy  colonnades,  skirting  the  horizon  of  the 
wilderness.  We  entered  by  the  ancient  gate,  which  is 
[82] 


c 


ITY  and  Bay 

ot  Sak-nio. 


"  Before  us  was  Salerno,  hiiHt  Info  n  decllnin;/  plain  hehoeen 
the  mountains  and  the  sea.  Bei/ond,  the  other  shore  of  ski/- 
cleaving  mountains,  then  dim  irith  the  mist  of  tempest." 

—  Letter  from  Naples,  p.  82. 


THE  YEAR   1818 

now  no  more  than  a  chasm  in  the  rock-like  wall.  Deeply 
snnk  in  the  ground  beside  it,  were  the  ruins  of  a  sepulchre, 
which  the  ancients  were  in  the  custom  of  building  beside 
the  public  way.  The  first  temple,  which  is  the  smallest, 
consists  of  an  outer  range  of  columns,  quite  perfect,  and 
supporting  perfect  architrave  and  two  shattered  frontis- 
pieces. The  proportions  are  extremely  massy,  and  the 
architecture  entirely  unornamented  and  simple.  Tliese 
columns  do  not  seem  more  than  forty  feet  high,^  but  the 
perfect  proportions  diminish  the  apprehension  of  their 
magnitude ;  it  seems  as  if  inequality  and  irregularity  of 
form  were  requisite  to  force  on  us  the  relative  idea  of 
greatness.  The  scene  from  between  the  columns  of  the 
temple''*  consists  on  one  side  of  the  sea,  to  which  the 
gentle  hill  on  which  it  is  built  slopes,  and  on  the  other,  of 
the  grand  amphitheatre  of  the  loftiest  Apennines,  dark 
purple  mountains,  crowned  with  snow  and  intercepted 
there  by  long  bars  of  hard  and  leaden-coloured  cloud. 
The  effect  of  the  jagged  outline  of  mountains,  through 
groups  of  enormous  columns  on  one  side,  and  on  the  other 
the  level  horizon  of  the  sea,  is  inexpressibly  grand.  The 
second  temple^  is  much  larger,  and  also  more  perfect. 
Beside  the  outer  range  of  columns,  it  contains  an  in- 
terior range  of  column  above  column,  and  the  ruins 
of  a  wall  which  was  the  screen  of  the  penetralia.  With 
little  diversity  of  ornament,  the  order  of  architecture 
is  similar  to  that  of  the  first  temple.     The  columns  in  all 

1  The  columns  of  the  Temple  of  Neptuue  are  29  feet ;  of  Basilica,  21 
feet  6  in.  high. 

2  Knowu  as  Temple  of  Ceres. 

'  Known  as  Temple  of  Neptune. 

[83] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN  ITALY 

are  fluted  and  built  of  a  porous  volcanic  stone  which  time 
has  dyed  with  a  rich  and  yellow  colour.  The  columns  are 
one-third  larger,  and  like  that  of  the  first,  diminish  from 
the  base  to  the  capital,  so  that,  but  for  the  chastening 
effect  of  their  admirable  proportions,  their  magnitude 
would,  from  the  delusion  of  perspective,  seem  greater,  not 
less,  than  it  is ;  though  perhaps  we  ought  to  say  not  that 
this  symmetry  diminishes  your  apprehension  of  their  mag- 
nitude, but  that  it  overpowers  the  idea  of  relative  great- 
ness, by  establishing  within  itself  a  system  of  relations 
destructive  of  your  idea  of  its  relation  with  other  objects 
on  which  our  ideas  of  size  depend.  The  third  temple  is 
what  they  call  a  Basilica;  three  columns  alone  remain  of 
the  interior  range;  the  exterior  is  perfect,  but  that  the 
cornice  and  frieze  in  many  places  have  fallen.  This 
temple  covers  more  ground  than  either  of  the  others,  but 
its  columns  are  of  an  intermediate  magnitude  between 
those  of  the  second  and  the  first. 

We  only  contemplated  these  sublime  monuments  for 
two  hours,  and  of  course  could  only  bring  away  so  imper- 
fect a  conception  of  them  as  is  the  shadow  of  some  half- 
remembered  dream. 


[84] 


THE   YEAR   1819 


Sd 


5        hi. 


'S 


THE   YEAR   1819 

ROME;  LEGHORN;  FLORENCE 

INTRODUCTORY 

^^^^O  realize  the  importance  of  this  year^  not  only  in 
m  the  life  of  Shelley^  hut  in  the  history  of  English 
jjoetry,  we  have  only  to  note  that  it  produced  ^^Pro- 
metheus Unbound,''''  the  most  rad'iant  of  all  Utopian 
visions  ;  "  The  Cenci,'"  the  greatest  of  the  tragedies  since 
Shakespeare;  the  ^^Ode  to  the  West  Wind, ^'' perhaps  the 
most  perfect  of  English  lyrics.  That  these  three  poems, 
each  among  its  oion  kind  tak'mg  a  supreme  place,  should 
have  been  produced  hy  one  man  and  in  a  s'lngle  year  of 
his  life  is  one  of  the  marvels  of  literary  biography.  The 
world  at  the  moment  was  quite  unheeding ;  but  more  and 
more  as  the  years  pass  it  is  coming  to  see  how  many- 
sided  a  poet  Shelley  really  is,  how  supreme  his  gift  of 
expression  when  strongly  moved. 

He  was  a  social  reformer  by  instinct,  a  champion  for 
equal  opportunities  for  all  men  and  all  women,  a  '■^  poet 
of  democracy,^''  before  that  catching  phrase  came  into 
being.  He  foresaw  the  struggle  between  classes,  and  sent 
poem^  to  England  which  his  friends  did  not  dare  to  print. 
The  news  of  the  Manchester  Massacre  reaching  him  in 
the  solitude  of  Ms  villa  near  Leghorn,  and  in  the  midst 
of  the  composition  of  "  The  Cenci,''''  he  seizes  his  pen  to 
[87] 


WITH  SHELLEY  IN   ITALY 

write  a  poem  for  the  people  and  to  apostrophize  freedom, 
proclaiming  that  it  is  not, 

"  ...  as  impostors  say, 
A  shadow  soon  to  jiass  away, 
A  superstition  and  a  name 
Echoing  from  the  cave  of  Fame. 
For  the  labourer  thou  art  bread. 
And  a  comely  table  spread. 

Science,  Poetry  and  Thought 
Are  thy  lamps  ;  they  make  the  lot 
Of  the  dwellers  in  a  cot 
So  serene,  they  curse  it  not." 

An  ambition  to  help  along  the  good  time  coming  had 
inspired  his  early  poems  "  Queen  Mab  "  and  "  Revolt  of 
Islam,''''  but  the  boyish  mind,  the  crude  art  had  been  un- 
equal to  the  task  it  set  for  itself.  Now,  though  still 
young  in  years,  having  ^'learned  in  suffering''''  he  could 
"  teach  in  song,''''  and  turning  once  more  to  his  favorite 
theme,  he  gives  idterance  to  his  conv'ictions  in  "  Prome- 
theus Unbound^''  with  a  poetic  art  which  is  now  fully 
mated  to  the  lofty  ideal.  The  subject  is  the  redemption 
of  humanity,  personified  in  the  chai'acter  of  Prometheus 
—  a  redempt'ion  accomplished  not  only  through  the  up- 
rooting  of  evil,  but  through  the  active  force  of  good. 

The  poem  was  more  than  a  year  in  process  of  composi- 
tion, and  it  grexv  with  the  author's  growth.  Begun  at 
Este  in  the  Autumn  of  1818,  it  was  resumed  the  next 
Spring  at  Rome,  where,  accord'ing  to  Mrs.  Shelley,  "  the 
charm  of  the  Roman  climate  helped  to  clothe  his  thoughts 
in  greater  beauty  than  they  had  ever  worn  before.''''  The 
[88] 


THE   YEAR   1819 

Jirst  three  acts  xoere  completed  and  the  poem  sent  to 
England  for  publication.  But  before  it  xvas  in  type,  it 
occurred  to  Shelley  that  it  needed  yet  one  more  element  — 
an  expression  of  the  Joy  of  man  a?id  the  universe  over 
the  great  redemption.  Accordingly  in  the  Autumn,  at 
Florence,  he  wrote  a  fourth  act  closing  zvith  some  lines 
that  sum  up  the  -whole  matter  and  that  fairly  blaze  with 
his  ^'enthusiasm  of  humanity''''  —  a  phrase  zvh'ich,  origi- 
nating tvith  Shelley,  has  been  adopted  as  pecul'iarly 
expressive  of  the  modern  spirit. 

It  is  not  true  to  say,  as  so  often  is  said,  that  the  great 
d'lstinction  of  "  Prometheus  Unbound "  is  its  exquisite 
imagery  and  the  '^ purple  patches''''  of  its  songs,  —  iyi 
short,  that  the  parts  are  greater  than  the  zohole.  Although 
indeed  these  alone  are  feas'ihle  in  a  volume  of  selections 
like  the  present,  he  who  reads  the  poem  as  a  whole  will 
discover  how  great  is  its  spiritual  icn'ity,  and  how  both 
form  and  thought  are  shaped  by  the poefs  aspirat'ion  for 
freedom  and  universal  love  among  men. 

Such  aspirations  inspired  not  only  his  earnest,  but  his 

latest  utterances,  and  perhaps  it  is  on  this  account  that 

Shelley'' s  verse  has  done  most  good  and  will  be  longest 

remembered.     Just  before  his  death,  he  sings  in  "  Hellas  "  •• 

"  The  world's  great  age  begins  aneio, 
The  golden  years  return, 
And  earth  doth  like  a  snake  renew 
Her  winter  weeds  outworn  ; 
Heaven  smiles,  and  faiths  and  empires  gleam 
Like  wrecks  of  a  dissolving  dream." 

Such  visions,  though  vague,  help  toward  the  progress 

of  humanity  and  a  bel'ief  in  a  divine  ordering  of  the 

[89] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN  ITALY 

universe  by  means  of  mercy  and  love.  They  appeal  to 
the  minds  of  ardent  youth  everywhere^  and  we  have  it 
on  the  testimony  of  a  distinguished  English  clergyman  ^ 
that  "  there  are  more  clergymen  and  more  religious  lay- 
men than  we  imagine  who  trace  to  the  emotion  Shelley 
awakened  in  them  when  they  were  young,  their  wider  and 
better  views  of  God.'''' 


PRAGMENT: 

TO     ITALY 

As  THE  sunrise  to  the  night, 

As  the  north  wind  to  the  clouds. 

As  the  earthquake's  fiery  flight, 
Ruining  mountain  solitudes. 

Everlasting  Italy, 

Be  those  hopes  and  fears  on  thee. 


FRAGMENT : 
A   eoman's   chamber 

I 

In  the  cave  which  wild  weeds  cover 
Wait  for  thine  ethereal  lover ; 
For  the  pallid  moon  is  waning, 

O'er  the  spiral  cypress  hanging 
And  the  moon  no  cloud  is  staining. 

1  Stopford  A.  Brooke. 

[90] 


THE   YEAR   1819 

n 

It  was  once  a  Romanes  chamber, 
Where  he  kept  his  darkest  revels. 

And  the  wild  weeds  twine  and  clamber ; 
It  was  then  a  chasm  for  devils. 


FRAG^IENT : 

EOME    AND    NATURE 

EoME  has  fallen,  ye  see  it  lying 

Heaped  in  undistinguished  ruin  : 
Nature  is  alone  undying. 

Rome,  March  23, 1819. 
From  Naples  we  came  by  slow  journeys,  with  our  own 
horses,  to  Rome,  resting  one  day  at  Mola  di  Gaeta,  at  the 
inn  called  "Villa  di  Cicerone,  from  being  built  on  the  ruins 
of  his  Yilla,  whose  immense  substructions  overhang  the  sea, 
and  are  scattered  among  the  orange-groves.  Nothing  can 
be  lovelier  than  the  scene  from  the  terraces  of  the  inn.  On 
one  side  precipitous  mountains,  whose  bases  slope  into  an 
inclined  plane  of  olive  and  orange-copses  —  the  latter 
forming,  as  it  were,  an  emerald  sky  of  leaves,  starred  with 
innumerable  globes  of  their  ripening  fruit,  whose  rich 
splendour  contrasted  with  the  deep  green  foliage ;  on  the 
other  the  sea  —  bounded  on  one  side  by  the  antique  town  of 
Gaeta,  and  the  other  by  what  appears  to  be  an  island,  the 
promontory  of  Circe.  From  Gaeta  to  Terracina  the  whole 
scenery  is  of  the  most  sublime  character.  At  Terracina 
[91] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN  ITALY 

precipitous  conical  crags  of  immense  height  shoot  into  the 
sky  and  overhang  the  sea.  At  Albano  we  arrived  again  in 
sight  of  Rome.  Arches  after  arches  in  unending  lines 
stretching  across  the  uninhabited  wilderness,  the  blue  de- 
fined line  of  the  mountains  seen  between  them ;  masses  of 
nameless  ruin  standing  like  rocks  out  of  the  plain ;  and  the 
plain  itself,  with  its  billowy  and  unequal  surface,  announced 
the  neighbourhood  of  Rome.  And  what  shall  I  say  to  you 
of  Rome?  If  I  speak  of  the  inanimate  ruins,  the  rude 
stones  piled  upon  stones,  Avhich  are  the  sepulchres  of  the 
fame  of  those  who  once  arrayed  them  with  the  beauty 
which  has  faded,  will  you  believe  me  insensible  to  the 
vital,  the  almost  breathing  creations  of  genius  yet  subsist- 
ing in  their  perfection  ?  What  has  become,  you  will  ask, 
of  the  Apollo,  the  Gladiator,  the  Venus  of  the  Capitol  ? 
What  of  the  Apollo  di  Belvedere,  the  Laocoon  ?  What 
of  Rafl'aelle  and  Guido  ?  These  things  are  best  spoken  of 
when  the  mind  has  drunk  in  the  spirit  of  their  forms ;  and 
little  indeed  can  I,  who  must  devote  no  more  than  a  few 
months  to  the  contemplation  of  them,  hope  to  know  or  feel 
of  their  profound  beauty. 

I  think  I  told  you  of  the  Coliseum,  and  its  impressions 
on  me  on  my  first  visit  to  this  city.  The  next  most  con- 
siderable relic  of  antiquity,  considered  as  a  ruin,  is  the 
Thermae  of  Caracalla.  These  consist  of  six  enormous 
chambers,  above  200  feet  in  height,  and  each  inclosing  a 
vast  space  like  that  of  a  field.  There  are,  in  addition,  a 
number  of  towers  and  labyrinthine  recesses,  hidden  and 
woven  over  by  the  wild  growth  of  weeds  and  ivy.  Never 
was  any  desolation  more  sublime  and  lovely.  The  per- 
[92] 


A    COUNKR  of  thu  Forum 
in  Slu'llcv's  tiiuc. 


'*  1  walk  forth  in  the  purple  and  i/uUlen  light  of  an  Italian 

evening,  and  return  hy  star  or  moonlight.  .   .  .  I  see  the  radiant 

Orion  through  the  mighty  columns  of  the  temple  of  Saturn,  and 

the  mellow  fading  light  softens  down  the  modern  buildings  of 

Ihe  capitol/'' 

—  Letter  from  Rome,    p.  96. 


THE   YEAR  1819 

pendiciilar  wall  of  ruin  is  cloven  into  steep  ravines  filled  up 
with  flowering  shrubs,  whose  thick  twisted  roots  are  knot- 
ted in  the  rifts  of  the  stones.  At  every  step  the  aerial 
pinnacles  of  shattered  stone  group  into  new  combinations 
of  effect,  and  tower  above  the  lofty  yet  level  walls,  as  the 
distant  mountains  change  their  asjject  to  one  travelling 
rapidly  along  the  plain.  The  perpendicular  walls  resemble 
nothing  more  than  that  cliff  of  Bisham  wood,  that  is  over- 
grown with  wood,  and  yet  is  stony  and  precipitous  —  you 
know  the  one  I  mean ;  not  the  chalk-pit,  but  the  spot  that 
has  the  pretty  copse  of  fir-trees  and  privet-bushes  at  its 
base,  and  where  H  '^  *  and  I  scrambled  up,  and  you,  to 
my  infinite  discontent,  would  go  home.  These  walls  sur- 
round green  and  level  spaces  of  lawn,  on  which  some  elms 
have  grown,  and  which  are  interspersed  towards  their 
skirts  by  masses  of  the  fallen  ruin,  overtwined  with  the 
broad  leaves  of  the  creeping  weeds.  The  blue  sky  canopies 
it,  and  is  as  the  everlasting  roof  of  these  enormous  halls. 

But  the  most  interesting  effect  remains.  In  one  of  the 
buttresses,  that  supports  an  immense  and  lofty  arch,  which 
"bridges  the  very  winds  of  heaven,"'  are  the  crumbling 
remains  of  an  antique  winding  staircase,  whose  sides  are 
open  hi  many  places  to  the  precipice.  This  you  ascend, 
and  arrive  on  the  summit  of  these  piles.  There  grow  on 
every  side  thick  entangled  wildernesses  of  myrtle,  and  the 
myrletus,  and  bay,  and  the  flowering  laurustinus,  whose 
white  blossoms  are  just  developed,  the  wild  fig,  and  a  thou- 
sand nameless  plants  sown  by  the  wandering  winds.  These 
woods  are  intersected  on  every  side  by  paths,  like  sheep 
tracks  through  the  copse-wood  of  steep  mountains,  which 
[93] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN  ITALY 

wind  to  every  part  of  the  immense  labyrinth.  Prom  the 
midst  rise  those  pinnacles  and  masses^  themselves  like 
mountains^  which  have  been  seen  from  below.  In  one 
place  you  wind  along  a  narrow  strip  of  weed-grown  ruin ; 
on  one  side  is  the  immensity  of  earth  and  sky^  on  the  other 
a  narrow  chasm,  which  is  bounded  by  an  arch  of  enormous 
size,  fringed  by  the  many-coloured  foliage  and  blossoms, 
and  supporting  a  lofty  and  irregular  pyramid,  overgrown 
like  itself  with  the  all-prevailing  vegetation.  Around  rise 
other  crags  and  other  peaks,  all  arrayed,  and  the  deformity 
of  their  vast  desolation  softened  down,  by  the  undecaying 
investiture  of  nature.  Come  to  Home.  It  is  a  scene  by 
which  expression  is  overpowered ;  which  words  cannot 
convey.  Still  further,  winding  up  one-half  of  the  shat- 
tered pyramids,  by  the  path  through  the  blooming  copse- 
wood,  you  come  to  a  little  mossy  lawn,  surrounded  by  the 
wild  shrubs ;  it  is  overgrown  with  anemones,  waU-flowers, 
and  violets,  whose  stalks  pierce  the  starry  moss,  and  with 
radiant  blue  flowers,  whose  names  I  know  not,  and  which 
scatter  through  the  air  the  divinest  odour,  which,  as  you 
recline  under  the  shade  of  the  ruin,  produces  sensations  of 
voluptuous  faintness,  like  the  combinations  of  sweet  music. 
The  paths  still  wind  on,  threading  the  perplexed  windings, 
other  labyrinths,  other  lawns,  and  deep  dells  of  wood,  and 
lofty  rocks,  and  terrific  chasms.  When  I  tell  you  that 
these  ruins  cover  several  acres,  and  that  the  paths  above 
penetrate  at  least  half  their  extent,  your  imagination  will  fill 
up  all  that  I  am  unable  to  express  of  this  astonishing 
scene. 

I  speak  of  these  things  not  in  the  order  in  which  I  visited 
[94] 


THE   YEAR   1819 

them,  but  in  that  of  the  impression  which  they  made  on  me, 
or  perhaps  chance  directs.  The  ruins  of  the  ancient  Forum 
are  so  far  fortunate  that  they  have  not  been  walled  up  in 
the  modern  city.  They  stand  in  an  open,  lonesome  place, 
bounded  on  one  side  by  the  modern  city,  and  the  other  by 
the  Palatine  Mount,  covered  with  shapeless  masses  of  ruin. 
The  tourists  tell  yon  all  about  these  things,  and  I  am  afraid 
of  stumbling  on  their  language  when  I  enumerate  what  is 
so  well  known.  There  remain  eight  granite  columns  of  the 
Ionic  order,  with  their  entablature,  of  the  Temple  of  Con- 
cord,^ founded  by  Camillus.  I  fear  that  the  immense  ex- 
pense demanded  by  these  columns  forbids  us  to  hope  that 
they  are  the  remains  of  any  edifice  dedicated  by  that  most 
perfect  and  virtuous  of  men.  It  is  supposed  to  have  been 
repaired  under  the  Eastern  Emperors ;  alas,  what  a  con- 
trast of  recollections  !  Near  them  stand  those  Corinthian 
fluted  columns,  which  supported  the  angle  of  a  temple ; 
the  architrave  and  entablature  are  worked  with  delicate 
sculpture.  Beyond,  to  the  south,  is  another  solitary 
column ;  and  still  more  distant,  three  more,  supporting  the 
wreck  of  an  entablature.  Descending  from  the  Capitol  to 
the  Fornm,  is  the  triumphal  arch  of  Septimus  Severus,  less 
perfect  than  that  of  Constantine,  though  from  its  propor- 
tions and  magnitude,  a  most  impressive  monument.  That 
of  Constantine,  or  rather  of  Titus  ^  (for  the  relief  and 
sculpture,  and  even  the  colossal  images  of  Dacian  captives, 
were  torn  by  a  decree  of  the  senate  from  an  arch  dedicated 

^  So-called  in  Shelley's  time.  Modem  archseologists  agree  ia  calling 
this  ruin  the  Temple  of  Saturn ;  of  the  Temple  of  Concord  lying  on  the 
slope  of  the  Capitoline  Hill  only  a  few  stones  remain. —  Ed. 

^  Shelley's  error ;  for  Titus  read  Trajan. 

[95] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

to  the  latter/  to  adorn  that  of  this  stupid  and  wicked  mon- 
ster, Constantine,  one  of  whose  chief  merits  consists  in 
establishing  a  religion,  the  destroyer  of  those  arts  which 
would  have  rendered  so  base  a  spoliation  unnecessary),  is 
the  most  perfect.  It  is  an  admirable  work  of  art.  It  is 
built  of  the  finest  marble,  and  the  outline  of  the  reliefs  is 
in  many  parts  as  perfect  as  if  just  finished.  Pour  Corin- 
thian fluted  columns  support,  on  each  side,  a  bold  entabla- 
ture, whose  bases  are  loaded  with  reliefs  of  captives  in 
every  attitude  of  humiliation  and  slavery.  The  compart- 
ments above  express  in  bolder  relief  the  enjoyment  of 
success ;  the  conqueror  on  his  throne,  or  in  his  chariot,  or 
nodding  over  the  crushed  multitudes,  who  writhe  under 
his  horses'  hoofs,  as  those  below  express  the  torture  and 
abjectness  of  defeat.  There  are  three  arches,  whose  roofs 
are  panelled  with  fretwork,  and  their  sides  adorned  with 
similar  reliefs.  The  keystone  of  these  arches  is  supported 
each  by  two  winged  figures  of  Victory,  whose  hair  floats  on 
the  wind  of  their  own  speed,  and  whose  arms  are  out- 
stretched, bearing  trophies,  as  if  impatient  to  meet.  They 
look,  as  it  were,  borne  from  the  subject  extremities  of  the 
earth,  on  the  breath  which  is  the  exhalation  of  that  battle 
and  desolation,  which  it  is  their  mission  to  commemorate. 
Never  were  monuments  so  completely  fitted  to  the  purpose 
for  which  they  were  designed,  of  expressing  that  mixture 
of  energy  and  error  which  is  called  a  triumph. 

I  walk    forth  in  the   purple   and  golden   light  of   an 
Italian  evening,  and  return  by  star  or  moonlight,  through 

1  Torn  not  from  an  arch,  but  from  a  huildbig  of  Trajan,  at  the  entrance 
to  his  Forum. 

[96] 


THE   YEAR   1819 

this  scene.  The  elms  are  just  budding,  and  the  warm 
Spring  winds  bring  unknown  odours,  all  sweet,  from  the 
country.  I  see  the  radiant  Orion  through  the  mighty 
columns  of  the  Temple  of  Concord,^  and  the  mellow  fading 
light  softens  down  the  modern  buildings  of  the  Capitol, 
the  only  ones  that  interfere  with  the  sublime  desolation  of 
the  scene.  On  the  steps  of  the  Capitol  itself,  stand  two 
colossal  statues  of  Castor  and  Pollux,  each  with  his  horse, 
finely  executed,  though  far  inferior  to  those  of  Monte 
Cavallo,  the  cast  of  one  of  Avhich  you  know  we  saw  to- 
gether in  London.  This  walk  is  close  to  our  lodging,  and 
this  is  my  evening  walk. 

"What  shall  I  say  of  the  modern  city  ?  Eome  is  yet 
the  capital  of  the  world.  It  is  a  city  of  palaces  and 
temples,  more  glorious  than  those  which  any  other  city 
contains,  and  of  ruins  more  glorious  than  they.  Seen 
from  any  of  the  eminences  that  surround  it,  it  exhibits 
domes  beyond  domes,  and  palaces,  and  colonnades  in- 
terminably, even  to  the  horizon ;  interspersed  with  patches 
of  desert,  and  mighty  ruins  which  stand  girt  by  their  own 
desolation,  in  the  midst  of  the  fanes  of  living  religions 
and  the  habitations  of  living  men,  in  sublime  loneliness. 
St.  Peter's  is,  as  you  have  heard,  the  loftiest  building  in 
Europe.  Externally  it  is  inferior  in  architectural  beauty 
to  St.  Paul's,  though  not  wholly  devoid  of  it;  internally 
it  exhibits  littleness  on  a  large  scale,  and  is  in  every 
respect  opposed  to  antique  taste.  You  know  my  pro- 
pensity to  admire ;  and  I  tried  to  persuade  myself  out  of 
this  opinion  —  in  vain ;  the  more  I  see  of  the  interior  of 

1  Saturn. 

7  [  97  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   L\   ITALY 

St.  Peter's,  the  less  impression  as  a  whole  does  it  produce 
on  me.  I  cannot  even  think  it  lofty,  though  its  dome  is 
considerably  higher  than  any  hill  within  fifty  miles  of  Lon- 
don ;  and  when  one  reilects,  it  is  an  astonishing  monument 
of  the  daring  energy  of  man.  Its  colonnade  is  wonder- 
fully fine,  and  there  are  two  fountains,  which  rise  in  spire- 
like columns  of  water  to  an  immense  height  in  the  sky, 
and  falling  on  the  porphyry  vases  from  which  they  spring, 
fill  the  whole  air  with  a  radiant  mist,  which  at  noon  is 
thronged  with  innumerable  rainbows.  In  the  midst  stands 
an  obelisk.  In  front  is  the  palace-like  fagade  of  St. 
Peter's,  certainly  magnificent;  and  there  is  produced,  on 
the  whole,  an  architectural  combination  unequalled  in  the 
world.  But  the  dome  of  the  temple  is  concealed,  except 
at  a  very  great  distance,  by  the  facade  and  the  inferior 
part  of  the  building,  and  that  diabolical  contrivance  they 
call  an  attic. 

The  effect  of  the  Pantheon  is  totally  the  reverse  of  that 
of  St.  Peter's.  Though  not  a  fourth  part  of  the  size,  it  is, 
as  it  were,  the  visible  image  of  the  universe ;  in  the  per- 
fection of  its  proportions,  as  when  you  regard  the  unmeas- 
ured dome  of  heaven,  the  idea  of  magnitude  is  swallowed 
up  and  lost.  It  is  open  to  the  sky,  and  its  wide  dome  is 
lighted  by  the  ever-changing  illumination  of  the  air.  The 
clouds  of  noon  fly  over  it,  and  at  night  the  keen  stars  are 
seen  through  the  azure  darkness,  hanging  immoveably,  or 
driving  after  the  driving  moon  among  the  clouds.  We 
visited  it  by  moonlight ;  it  is  supported  by  sixteen  columns, 
fluted  and  Corinthian,  of  a  certain  rare  and  beautiful 
yellow  marble,  exquisitely  polished,  called  here  giallo 
[98] 


"DAS-RELIEFS  on 

-*-'Airli  (.n'iiiis. 


Tltun  rruirjinl  l>i/  Vicluri^.      Srulptan d  relief  'insula  Arch  of  Titus. 


Triumphal  Proressioii,  u  s'udji/Kre  on  inside  Anh  of  Titus. 

—  Shelley's  Roman  Note-Book,  pp.  101,  102. 


THE   YEAR  1819 

antico.  Above  these  are  the  niches  for  the  statues  of  the 
twelv^e  gods.  This  is  the  only  defect  of  this  sublime 
temple;  there  ought  to  have  been  no  interval  between  the 
commencement  of  the  dome  and  the  cornice,  sujiported  by 
the  columns.  Thus  there  would  have  been  no  diversion  from 
the  magnificent  simplicity  of  its  form.  This  improvement 
is  alone  wanting  to  have  completed  the  unity  of  the  idea. 

The  fountains  of  Eome  are,  in  themselves,  magnificent 
combinations  of  art,  such  as  alone  it  were  worth  coming  to 
see.  That  in  the  Piazza  Navona,  a  large  square,  is  com- 
posed of  enormous  fragments  of  rock,  piled  on  each  other, 
and  penetrated,  as  by  caverns.  This  mass  supports  an 
Egyptian  obelisk  of  immense  height.  On  the  four  corners 
of  the  rock  recline,  in  different  attitudes,  colossal  figures 
representing  the  four  divisions  of  the  globe.  The  water 
bursts  from  the  crevices  beneath  them.  They  are  sculp- 
tured with  great  spirit ;  one  impatiently  tearing  a  veil  from 
his  eyes;  another  with  his  hands  stretched  upwards.  The 
Fontana  di  Trevi  is  the  most  celebrated,  and  is  rather  a 
waterfall  than  a  fountain;  gushing  out  from  masses  of 
rock,  with  a  gigantic  figure  of  Neptune;  and  below  are 
two  river  gods,  checking  two  winged  horses,  struggling  uj) 
from  among  the  rocks  and  waters.  The  whole  is  not  ill- 
conceived  nor  executed ;  but  you  know  not  how  delicate 
the  imagination  becomes  by  dieting  with  antiquity  day 
after  day.  The  only  things  that  sustain  the  comparison 
are  Raphael,  Guido,  and  Salvator  Rosa. 

The  fountain  on  the  Quirinal,  or  rather  the  group 
formed  by  the  statues,  obelisk,  and  the  fountain,  is,  how- 
ever, the  most  admirable  of  all.  From  the  Piazza  Quiri- 
[99] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

nale^  or  ratlier  Monte  Cavallo^,  you  see  the  boundless  ocean 
of  domes,  spires,  and  columns,  which  is  the  City,  Rome. 
On  a  pedestal  of  white  marble  rises  an  obelisk  of  red 
granite,  piercing  the  blue  sky.  Before  it  is  a  vast  basin 
of  porphyry,  in  the  midst  of  which  rises  a  column  of  the 
purest  water,  which  collects  into  itself  all  the  overhang- 
ing colours  of  the  sky,  and  breaks  them  into  a  thousand 
prismatic  hues  and  graduated  shadows  —  they  fall  together 
with  its  dashing  water-drops  into  the  outer  basin.  The 
elevated  situation  of  this  fountain  produces,  I  imagine, 
this  effect  of  colour.  On  each  side,  on  an  elevated  pedes- 
tal, stand  the  statues  of  Castor  and  Pollux,  each  in  the  act 
of  taming  his  horse,  which  are  said,  but  I  believe  wholly 
without  authority,  to  be  the  work  of  Phidias  and  Praxite- 
les. These  figures  combine  the  irresistible  energy  with 
the  sublime  and  j)erfect  loveliness  supposed  to  have  be- 
longed to  their  divine  nature.  The  reins  no  longer  exist, 
but  the  position  of  their  hands  and  the  sustained  and  calm 
command  of  their  regard,  seem  to  require  no  mechanical 
aid  to  enforce  obedience.  The  countenances  at  so  great  a 
height  are  scarcely  visible,  and  I  have  a  better  idea  of  that 
of  which  we  saw  a  cast  together  in  London,  than  of  the 
other.  But  the  sublime  and  living  majesty  of  their  limbs 
and  mien,  the  nervous  and  fiery  animation  of  the  horses 
they  restrain,  seen  in  the  blue  sky  of  Italy,  and  overlook- 
ing the  city  of  Rome,  surrounded  by  the  light  and  the 
music  of  that  crystalline  fountain,  no  cast  can  communicate. 
These  figures  were  found  at  the  Baths  of  Constantine, 
but,  of  course,  are  of  remote  antiquity.  I  do  not  acquiesce, 
however,  in  the  practice  of  attributing  to  Phidias,  or  Prax- 
[  100  J 


THE   YEAR  1819 

iteles,  or  Scopas,  or  some  great  master,  any  admirable 
work  that  may  be  found.  We  find  little  of  what  remained, 
and  perhaps  the  works  of  these  were  such  as  greatly  sur- 
passed all  that  we  conceive  of  most  perfect  and  admirable 
in  what  little  has  escaped  the  deluge.  If  I  am  too  jealous 
of  the  honour  of  the  Greeks,  our  masters,  and  creators,  the 
gods  whom  we  should  worship,  —  pardon  me. 

I  have  said  what  I  feel  without  entering  into  any  critical 
discussions  of  the  ruins  of  Rome,  and  the  mere  outside  of 
this  inexhaustible  miue  of  thought  and  feeling.  Hobhouse, 
Eustace,  and  Forsyth,  will  tell  all  the  shew-knowledge 
about  it  —  "  the  common  stuff  of  the  earth."  By-the-bye, 
Porsyth  is  worth  reading,  as  I  judge  from  a  chapter  or  two 
I  have  seen.     I  cannot  get  the  book  here. 

I  ought  to  have  observed  that  the  central  arch  of  the 
triumphal  Arch  of  Titus  ^  yet  subsists,  more  perfect  in  its 

^  Evidently,  Shelley  here  was  writing  from  a  confusion  of  memories  re- 
garding the  two  arches  of  Constantine  and  of  Titus,  since  portions  of  this 
paragraph  apply  to  the  one  and  portions  to  the  other  —  a  confusion  that  has 
been  left  uncorrected  by  all  his  editors.  The  figures  of  Victory  are  on  the 
Arch  of  Constantine  ;  the  true  description  of  the  Arch  of  Titus  occurs  in 
his  Roman  Note-Book,  as  follows  :  — 

ARCH   OF    TITUS. 
Trom  Shelley  s  Roman  Note-BooJc. 

On  the  inner  compartment  of  the  Arch  of  Titus,  is  sculptured  in  deep  re- 
lief, the  desolation  of  a  city.  On  one  side,  the  walls  of  the  Temple,  split  by 
the  fury  of  conflagi-ation,  hang  tottering  in  the  act  of  ruin.  The  accompani- 
ments of  a  town  taken  by  assault,  matrons  and  virgins  and  children  and  old 
men  gathered  into  groups,  and  the  rapine  aud  licence  of  a  barbarous  and 
enraged  soldiery,  are  imaged  in  the  distance.  The  foreground  is  occupied 
by  a  procession  of  the  victors,  bearing  in  their  profane  hands  the  holy 
candlesticks  and  the  tables  of  shewbread,  and  the  sacred  instruments  of  the 
eternal  worship  of  the  Jews.     On  the  opposite  side,  the  reverse  of  this  sad 

[  101  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN   ITALY 

proportions,  they  say,  than  any  of  a  later  date.  This  I 
did  not  remark.  The  figures  of  Victory,  with  unfolded 
wings,  and  each  spurning  back  a  globe  with  outstretched 
feet,  are,  perhaps,  more  beautiful  than  those  on  either  of 
the  others.  Their  lips  are  parted :  a  delicate  mode  of  in- 
dicating the  fervour  of  their  desire  to  arrive  at  the  destined 
resting-place,  and  to  express  the  eager  respiration  of  their 
speed.  Indeed,  so  essential  to  beauty  were  the  forms  ex- 
pressive of  the  exercise  of  the  imagination  and  the  affections 
considered  by  Greek  artists,  that  no  ideal  figure  of  an- 
tiquity, not  destined  to  some  representation  directly  exclu- 
sive of  such  a  character,  is  to  be  found  with  closed  lips. 
"Within  this  arch  are  two  panelled  alto  relievos,  one  repre- 
senting a  train  of  people  bearing  in  procession  the  instru- 
ments of  Jewish  worship,  among  which  is  the  holy 
candlestick  with  seven  branches ;  on  the  other,  Titus 
standing  in  a  quadriga,  with  a  winged  Victory.  The 
grouping  of  the  horses,  and  the  beauty,  correctness,  and 
energy  of  their  delineation,  is  remarkable,  though  they  are 
much  destroyed. 

picture,  Titus  is  represented  standing  in  a  chariot  drawn  by  four  horses, 
crowned  with  laurel,  and  surrounded  by  the  tumultuous  numbers  of  his 
triumphant  army,  and  the  magistrates,  and  priests,  and  generals,  and  philos- 
ophers, dragged  in  chains  beside  his  wheels.  Behind  him  stands  a  Victory 
eagle-winged. 

The  arch  is  now  mouldering  into  ruins,  and  the  imagery  almost  erased 
by  the  lapse  of  fifty  generations.  Beyond  this  obscm-e  monument  of 
Hebrew  desolation,  is  seen  the  tomb  of  the  Destroyer's  family,  now  a 
mountain  of  ruins. 

The  Flavian  amphitheatre  has  become  a  habitation  for  owls  and  dragons. 
The  power,  of  whose  possession  it  was  once  the  type,  and  of  whose  departure 
it  is  now  the  emblem,  is  become  a  dream  and  a  memory.  Rome  is  no  more 
than  Jerusalem. 

[  102  ] 


T^lIE  Coliseum  seen  thrDUgli 
the  Art-h  of  Titus. 


"  The  Flavian  amphitheatre  has  become  a  hafutatiun  for 
oivls  and  dragons.  The  power,  of  whose  possession  if  icas 
once  the  type,  .  .  .   is  become  a  dream  and  a  memory.  ^^ 

—  Slielley's  Roman  Note-Book,  p.  102. 


THE   YEAR   1819 

PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 
A  Lyrical  Drama  in  Four  Acts 

ATJDISNE     H^C    AMPHIAKAE,     SUB    TERKAM     ABDITE  ? 

PREFACE 

The  Greek  tragic  writers,  in  selecting  as  their  subject 
any  portion  of  their  national  history  or  mythology,  em- 
ployed in  their  treatment  of  it  a  certain  arbitrary  discretion. 
They  by  no  means  conceived  themselves  bound  to  adhere 
to  the  common  interpretation  or  to  imitate  in  story  as  in 
title  their  rivals  and  predecessors.  Such  a  system  would 
have  amounted  to  a  resignation  of  those  claims  to  prefer- 
ence over  their  competitors  which  incited  the  composition. 
The  Agamemnonian  story  was  exhibited  on  the  Athenian 
theatre  with  as  many  variations  as  dramas. 

I  have  presumed  to  employ  a  similar  licence.  The 
"  Prometheus  Unbound  "  of  ^Eschylus  supposed  the  recon- 
ciliation of  Jupiter  with  his  victim  as  the  price  of  the  dis- 
closure of  the  danger  threatened  to  his  empire  by  the 
consummation  of  his  marriage  with  Thetis.  Thetis,  ac- 
cording to  this  view  of  the  subject,  was  given  in  marriage 
to  Peleus,  and  Prometheus,  by  the  permission  of  Jupiter, 
delivered  from  his  captivity  by  Hercules.  Had  I  framed 
my  story  on  this  model,  I  should  have  done  no  more  than 
have  attempted  to  restore  the  lost  drama  of  iE?chylus ;  an 
ambition  which,  if  my  preference  to  this  mode  of  treating 
the  subject  had  incited  me  to  cherish,  the  recollection  of  the 
high  comparison  such  an  attempt  would  challenge  might 
[  103  ] 


AVITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

well  abate.  But^  in  truth,  I  was  averse  from  a  catastrophe 
so  feeble  as  that  of  reconciling  the  Champion  with  the  Op- 
pressor of  mankind.  The  moral  interest  of  the  fable,  which 
is  so  powerfully  sustained  by  the  sufferings  and  endurance 
of  Prometheus,  would  be  annihilated  if  we  could  conceive 
of  him  as  unsaying  his  high  language  and  quailing  before 
his  successful  and  perfidious  adversary.  The  only  im- 
aginary being  resembling  in  any  degree  Prometheus,  is 
Satan ;  and  Prometheus  is,  in  my  judgment,  a  more  poeti- 
cal character  than  Satan,  because,  in  addition  to  courage, 
and  majesty,  and  firm  and  patient  opposition  to  omnipotent 
force,  he  is  susceptible  of  being  described  as  exempt  from 
the  taints  of  ambition,  envy,  revenge,  and  a  desire  for  per- 
sonal aggrandisement,  which,  in  the  Hero  of  Paradise  Lost, 
interfere  with  the  interest.  The  character  of  Satan  engen- 
ders in  the  mind  a  pernicious  casuistry  which  leads  us  to 
weigh  his  faults  with  his  wrongs,  and  to  excuse  the  former 
because  the  latter  exceed  all  measure.  In  the  minds  of 
those  who  consider  that  magnificent  fiction  with  a  rehgious 
feeling  it  engenders  something  worse.  But  Prometheus  is, 
as  it  were,  the  type  of  the  highest  perfection  of  moral  and 
intellectual  nature,  impelled  by  the  purest  and  the  truest 
motives  to  the  best  and  noblest  ends. 

This  Poem  was  chiefly  written  upon  the  mountainous 
ruins  of  the  Baths  of  Caracalla,  among  the  flowery  glades 
and  thickets  of  odoriferous  blossoming  trees,  which  are  ex- 
tended in  ever  winding  labyrinths  upon  its  immense  plat- 
forms and  dizzy  arches  suspended  in  the  air.  The  bright 
blue  sky  of  Rome,  and  the  effect  of  the  vigorous  awaken- 
ing Spring  in  that  divinest  climate,  and  the  new  life  with 
[  104  ] 


THE  YEAR   1819 

which  it  drenches  the  spirits  even  to  intoxication,  were  the 
inspiration  of  this  drama. 

Let  this  opportunity  be  conceded  to  me  of  acknowledging 
that  I  have,  what  a  Scotch  philosopher  characteristically 
terms,  "  a  passion  for  reforming  the  world  " :  what  passion 
incited  him  to  write  and  publish  his  book,  he  omits  to 
explain.  For  my  part  I  had  rather  be  damned  with  Plato 
and  Lord  Bacon,  than  go  to  Heaven  with  Paley  and  Mal- 
thus.  But  it  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  I  dedicate  my 
poetical  compositions  solely  to  the  direct  enforcement  of 
reform,  or  that  I  consider  them  in  any  degree  as  contain- 
ing a  reasoned  system  on  the  theory  of  human  life.  Didac- 
tic poetry  is  my  abhorrence ;  nothing  can  be  equally  Avell 
expressed  in  prose  that  is  not  tedious  and  supererogatory  in 
verse.  My  purpose  has  hitherto  been  simply  to  familiarise 
the  highly  refined  imagination  of  the  more  select  classes  of 
poetical  readers  with  beautiful  idealisms  of  moral  excel- 
lence ;  aware  that  until  the  mind  can  love,  and  admire,  and 
trust,  and  hope,  and  endure,  reasoned  principles  of  moral 
conduct  are  seeds  cast  upon  the  highway  of  life  which  the 
unconscious  passenger  tramples  into  dust,  although  they 
would  bear  the  harvest  of  his  happiness.  Should  I  live  to 
accomplish  what  I  purpose,  that  is,  produce  a  systematical 
history  of  what  appear  to  me  to  be  the  genuine  elements  of 
human  society,  let  not  the  advocates  of  injustice  and  super- 
stition flatter  themselves  that  I  should  take  iEschylus 
rather  than  Plato  as  my  model.  ... 


[  105  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN  ITALY 


FROM  ACT  I  OF  "PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND" 

Scene.  —  Prometheus  is  discovered  bound  to  a  precipice  of  icy 
rocks  ill  the  Indian.  Caucasus.  lone  and  Panthea  (sister-spirits  of 
Hope  and  of  Faith)  seek  to  soothe  his  stern  agony.  The  chorus  of 
Furies  having  been  repulsed  by  Prometheus,  a  chorus  of  benign 
spirits  appear  and  sing  that  all  evil  is  the  occasion  for  higher  good.^ 

Chorus  of  Spirits 

Prom  uuremembered  ages  we 
Gentle  guides  and  guardians  be 
Of  heaven-oppressed  mortality ; 
And  we  breathe,  and  sicken  not, 
The  atmosphere  of  human  thought : 
Be  it  dim,  and  dank,  and  grey. 
Like  a  storm-extinguished  day. 
Travelled  o^er  by  dying  gleams; 

Be  it  bright  as  all  between 
Cloudless  skies  and  windless  streams, 

Silent,  liquid,  and  serene ; 
As  the  birds  within  the  wind. 

As  the  fish  within  the  wave. 
As  the  thoughts  of  man's  own  mind 

Float  thro'  all  above  the  grave ; 
We  make  there  our  liquid  lair, 
Voyaging  cloudlike  and  unpent 
Thro'  the  boundless  element : 

1  The  world  in  which  the  action  is  supposed  to  move  rings  with  spirit- 
voices  ;  and  what  these  spirits  sing  is  more  purged  of  mortal  dross  than  any 
other  poet's  ear  has  caught,  while  listening  to  his  own  heart's  song,  or  to 
the  rhythms  of  the  world.  —  Symonds. 

[106] 


THE   YEAR   1819 

Thence  we  bear  the  prophecy 
Which  begins  and  ends  in  thee ! 

lone. 

More  yet  come^  one  by  one  :  the  air  around  them 
Looks  radiant  as  the  air  around  a  star. 

First  Spirit. 

On  a  battle-trumpet's  blast 
I  fled  hither^  fast,  fast,  fast, 
■'Mid  the  darkness  upward  cast. 
From  the  dust  of  creeds  outworn, 
From  the  tyrant's  banner  torn. 
Gathering  'round  me,  onward  borne. 
There  was  mingled  many  a  cry  — 
Freedom  !    Hope  !    Death  !    Victory  ! 
Till  they  faded  thro'  the  sky ; 
And  one  sound,  above,  around. 
One  sound  beneath,  around,  above. 
Was  moving  ;  't  was  the  soul  of  love; 
^Twas  the  hope,  the  prophecy, 
Which  begins  and  ends  in  thee. 

Second  Spirit. 

A  rainbow's  arch  stood  on  the  sea. 
Which  rocked  beneath,  immovably ; 
And  the  triumphant  storm  did  flee. 
Like  a  conqueror,  swift  and  proud. 
Between,  with  many  a  captive  cloud, 
A  shapeless,  dark  and  rapid  crowd, 
[  107  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

Each  by  lightning  -riven  in  half : 
I  hear  the  thunder  hoarsely  laugh : 
Mighty  fleets  were  strewn  like  chaff 
And  spread  beneath  a  hell  of  death 
O'er  the  white  waters.     I  alit 
On  a  great  ship  lightning-split, 
And  speeded  hither  on  the  sigh 
Of  one  who  gave  an  enemy 
His  plank,  then  plunged  aside  to  die. 

Third  Spirit. 

I  sate  beside  a  sage's  bed, 
And  the  lamp  was  burning  red 
Near  the  book  where  he  had  fed. 
When  a  Dream  with  plumes  of  flame. 
To  his  pillow  hovering  came, 
And  I  knew  it  was  the  same 
Which  had  kindled  long  ago 
Pity,  eloquence,  and  woe  ; 
And  the  world  awhile  below 
Wore  the  shade  its  lustre  made. 
It  has  borne  me  here  as  fleet 
As  Desire's  lightning  feet : 
I  must  ride  it  back  ere  morrow. 
Or  the  sage  will  wake  in  sorrow. 

Fourth  Spirit. 

On  a  poet's  lips  I  slept 
Dreaming  like  a  love-adept 
In  the  sound  his  breathing  kept; 
[108] 


THE   YEAR   1819 

Nor  seeks  nor  finds  he  mortal  blisses. 

But  feeds  on  the  aerial  kisses 

Of  shapes  that  haunt  thought's  wildernesses. 

He  will  Avatch  from  dawn  to  gloom 

The  lake-reflected  sun  illume 

The  yellow  bees  in  the  ivy-bloom, 

Nor  heed  nor  see,  what  things  they  be ; 

But  from  these  create  he  can 

Forms  more  real  than  living  man, 

Nurslings  of  immortality ! 

One  of  these  awakened  me, 

And  1  sped  to  succour  thee. 

lone. 
Behold'st  thou  not  two  shapes  from  the  east  and  west 
Come,  as  two  doves  to  one  beloved  nest, 
Twin  nurslings  of  the  all-sustaining  air 
On  swift  still  wings  glide  down  the  atmosphere  ? 
And,  hark  !  their  sweet,  sad  voices  !  ''t  is  despair 
Mingled  with  love  and  then  dissolved  in  sound. 

Panthea. 
Canst  thou  speak,  sister  ?  all  my  words  are  drowned. 

lone. 
Their  beauty  gives  me  voice.     See  how  they  float. 
On  their  sustaining  wings  of  skiey  grain. 
Orange  and  azure  deepening  into  gold : 
Their  soft  smiles  light  the  air  like  a  star's  fire. 

Chorics  of  Spirits. 
Hast  thou  beheld  the  form  of  Love  ? 
[  109] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 


Fifth  Spirit. 

As  over  wide  dominions 
I  sped;  like  some  swift  cloud  that  wings  the  wide  air^s 

wildernesses, 
That  planet-crested  shape  swept  by  on  lightning-braided 

pinions, 
Scattering  the  liquid  joy  of  life  from  his  ambrosial  tresses  : 
His  footsteps  paved  the  world  with  light ;  but  as  I  past 

't  was  fading, 
And  hollow  Euin  yawned  behind  :  great  sages  bound  in 

madness. 
And  headless  patriots,  and  pale  youths  who  perished,  un- 

upb  raiding. 
Gleamed  in  the  night.     I  wandered  o^er,  till  thou,  0  King 

of  sadness, 
Turned  by  thy  smile  the  worst  I  saw  to  recollected  gladness. 

Sixth  Spirit. 

Ah,  sister  !  Desolation  is  a  delicate  thing : 

It  walks  not  on  the  earth,  it  floats  not  on  the  air, 

But  treads  with  killing  footstep,  and  fans  with  silent  wing 

The  tender  hopes  which   in   their   hearts   the   best   and 

gentlest  bear; 
Who,  soothed  to  false  repose  by  the  fanning  plumes  above 
And  the  music-stirring  motion  of  its  soft  and  busy  feet. 
Dream  visions  of  aerial  joy,  and  call  the  monster.  Love, 
And  wake,  and  find  the  shadow  Pain,  as  he  whom  now  we 

greet. 

[  no  ] 


THE    YEAR   1819 

Chorus. 

Tho'  Kuiii  now  Love's  sliadow  be. 
Following  liinij  destroyingly, 

On  Death's  white  and  winged  steed, 
"Which  the  fleetest  cannot  flee^ 

Trampling  down  both  flower  and  weed 
Man  and  beast,  and  foul  and  fair. 
Like  a  tempest  thro'  the  air ; 
Thou  shalt  quell  this  horseman  grim, 
Woundless  though  in  heart  or  limb. 

Prometheus. 
Spirits  !  how  know  ye  this  shall  be  ? 

Chorus. 

In  the  atmosphere  we  breathe, 
As  buds  grow  red  when  the  snow-storms  flee. 

From  Spring  gathering  up  beneath, 
Whose  mild  winds  shake  the  elder  brake, 
And  the  wandering  herdsmen  know 
That  the  white-thorn  soon  will  blow  : 
Wisdom,  Justice,  Love,  and  Peace, 
When  they  struggle  to  increase. 

Are  to  us  as  soft  winds  be 

To  shepherd  boys,  the  prophecy 

Which  begins  and  ends  in  thee. 

lone. 
Where  are  the  spirits  fled  ? 
[Ill  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 


'Panthea. 

Only  a  sense 
Eemains  of  them,  like  the  omnipotence 
Of  music,  when  the  inspired  voice  and  lute 
Languish,  ere  yet  the  responses  are  mute. 
Which  thro^  the  deep  and  labyrinthine  soul. 
Like  echoes  thro'  long  caverns,  wind  and  roll. 

Prometheus. 

How  fair  these  air-born  shapes  !  and  yet  I  feel 

Most  vain  all  hope  but  love ;  and  thou  art  far, 

Asia  !  who,  when  my  being  overflowed, 

Wert  like  a  golden  chalice  to  bright  wine 

Which  else  had  sunk  into  the  thirsty  dust. 

All  things  are  still :  alas  !  how  heavily 

This  quiet  morning  weighs  upon  my  heart; 

Tho'  I  should  dream  I  could  even  sleep  with  grief 

If  slumber  were  denied  not.     I  would  fain 

Be  what  it  is  my  destiny  to  be, 

The  saviour  and  the  strength  of  suffering  man, 

Or  sink  into  the  original  gulf  of  things  : 

There  is  no  agony,  and  no  solace  left ; 

Earth  can  console,  Heaven  can  torment  no  more. 

Panthea. 

Hast  thou  forgotten  one  who  watches  thee 
The  cold  dark  night,  and  never  sleeps  but  when 
The  shadow  of  thy  spirit  falls  on  her? 

[ml 


THE   YEAR   1819 

Trometheus. 
I  said  all  liope  was  vain  but  love :  thou  lovest. 

Panthea. 

Deeply  in  truth ;  but  the  eastern  star  looks  white, 
And  Asia  waits  in  that  far  Indian  vale 
The  scene  of  her  sad  exile;  rugged  once 
And  desolate  and  frozen,  like  this  ravine ; 
But  now  invested  with  fair  flowers  and  herbs, 
And  haunted  by  sweet  airs  and  sounds,  which  flow 
Among  the  woods  and  waters,  from  the  ether 
Of  her  transforming  presence,  which  would  fade 
If  it  were  mingled  not  with  thine.     Farewell ! 

END    OF    THE    FIRST    ACT. 

PROM  ACT  11,  SC.  5  OE  "PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND" 

In  the  second  act,  the  interest  centres  round  Asia,  the  beloved  of 
Proraetheas,  who  first  awaits  him  afar  in  sorrow,  and  afterward  un- 
dertakes a  pilgrimage  for  his  redemption.  The  act  closes  with  a 
Voice  (the  voice  of  the  unseen  Prometheus)  siughig  to  her  a  wor- 
shipful lyric,  followed  by  her  response  to  it. 

Panthea  {to  Asia). 

How  thou  art  changed  !     I  dare  not  look  on  thee  ; 

I  feel  but  see  thee  not.     I  scarce  endure 

The  radiance  of  thy  beauty.     Some  good  change 

Is  working  in  the  elements,  which  suffer 

Thy  presence  thus  unveiled.     The  Nereids  tell 

That  on  the  day  when  the  clear  hyaline 

8  [  113  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

Was  cloven  at  thy  uprise^  and  thou  didst  stand 

Within  a  veined  shell,  which  floated  on 

Over  the  calm  floor  of  the  crystal  sea. 

Among  the  ^gean  isles,  and  by  the  shores 

Which  bear  thy  name ;  love,  like  the  atmosphere 

Of  the  suu^s  fire  filling  the  living  world, 

Burst  from  thee,  and  illumined  earth  and  heaven 

And  the  deep  ocean  and  the  sunless  caves 

And  all  that  dwells  within  them ;  till  grief  cast 

Eclipse  upon  the  soul  from  which  it  came : 

Such  art  thou  now ;  nor  is  it  I  alone. 

Thy  sister,  thy  companion,  thine  own  chosen  one, 

But  the  whole  world  which  seeks  thy  sympathy. 

Hearest  thou  not  sounds  i"*  the  air  which  speak  the  love 

Of  all  articulate  beings  ?     Feelest  thou  not 

The  inanimate  winds  enamoured  of  thee  ?    List !    {Music.) 

Asia. 

Thy  words  are  sweeter  than  aught  else  but  his 
Whose  echoes  they  are :  yet  all  love  is  sweet, 
Given  or  returned.     Common  as  light  is  love. 
And  its  familiar  voice  wearies  not  ever. 
Like  the  wide  heaven,  the  all-sustaining  air. 
It  makes  the  reptile  equal  to  the  God  :  ^ 
They  who  inspire  it  most  are  fortunate, 

1  Compare  Browning  :  — 

"  For  the  loving  worm  witliin  its  clod 
Were  diviner  than  a  loveless  god." 

Also  Shelley  again  in  Epipsyclddion  :  — 

"  The  spirit  of  the  woim  beneath  the  sod 
In  love  and  worship  blends  itself  with  God." 
[    114   ] 


THE   YEAR   1819 

As  I  am  now ;  but  those  who  feel  it  most 
Are  happier  stilly  after  long  sufferings^ 
As  I  shall  soon  become. 

Panthea. 

List !  Spirits  speak 

Voice  in  the  Air,  singing. 

Life  of  Life  !  thy  lips  enkindle 

With  their  love  the  breath  between  them ; 
And  thy  smiles  before  they  dwindle 

Make  the  cold,  air  fire ;  then  screen  them 
In  those  looks,  where  whoso  gazes 
Faints,  entangled  in  their  mazes. 

Child  of  Light !  thy  limbs  are  burning 
Thro^  the  vest  whicli  seems  to  hide  them ; 

As  the  radiant  lines  of  morning 

Thro'  the  clouds  ere  they  divide  them ; 

And  this  atmosphere  divinest 

Shrouds  thee  wheresoe'er  thou  shinest. 

Fair  are  others  ;  none  beholds  thee. 
But  thy  voice  sounds  low  and  tender 

Like  the  fairest,  for  it  folds  thee 

From  the  sight,  that  liquid  splendour^ 

And  all  feel,  yet  see  thee  never. 

As  I  feel  now,  lost  for  ever ! 

Lamp  of  Earth  !  where'er  thou  movest 
Its  dim  shapes  are  clad  with  brightness, 
[115  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

And  the  souls  of  whom  thou  loves 

Walk  upon  the  winds  with  lightness. 
Till  they  fail,  as  I  am  failing, 
Dizzy,  lost,  yet  unbewailing  ! 

Asia} 

My  soul  is  an  enchanted  boat, 

"Which,  like  a  sleeping  swan,  doth  float 
Upon  the  silver  waves  of  thy  sweet  singing ; 

And  thine  doth  like  an  angel  sit 

Beside  a  helm  conducting  it. 
Whilst  all  the  winds  with  melody  are  ringing. 

It  seems  to  float  ever,  for  ever. 

Upon  that  many-winding  river, 

Between  mountains,  woods,  abysses, 

A  paradise  of  wildernesses  ! 
Till,  like  one  in  slumber  bound. 
Borne  to  the  ocean,  I  float  down,  around. 
Into  a  sea  profound,  of  ever-spreading  sound. 

Meanwhile  thy  spirit  lifts  its  pinions 

In  music's  most  serene  dominions ; 
Catching  the  winds  that  fan  that  happy  heaven. 

And  we  sail  on,  away,  afar, 

Without  a  course,  without  a  star. 
But,  by  the  instinct  of  sweet  music  driven  ; 

Till  through  Elysian  garden  islets 

By  thee,  most  beautiful  of  pilots, 

1  This  has  heen  read  by  many  of  us  scores  of  times  with  scarcely  a 
wish  perhaps  to  trace  out  its  intricate  meaning,  but  with  a  keen  delight  in 
its  ideal  charm,  its  supersensuous  meander.  —  Rossetti. 

[116] 


THE   YEAR   1819 

Where  never  mortal  pinnace  glided, 

The  boat  of  my  desire  is  guided  : 
Eealms  where  the  air  we  breatlie  is  love, 
Which  in  the  winds  and  on  the  waves  doth  move. 
Harmonising  this  earth  with  what  we  feel  above. 

We  have  passed  Age's  icy  caves. 

And  manhood^s  dark  and  tossing  waves, 
And  Youth^s  smooth  ocean,  smiling  to  betray : 

Beyond  the  glassy  gulfs  we  flee 

Of  shadow-peopled  Infancy, 
Through  Death  and  Birth,  to  a  diviner  day ; 

A  paradise  of  vaulted  bowers. 

Lit  by  downward-gazing  flowers. 

And  watery  paths  that  wind  between 

Wildernesses  calm  and  green, 
Peopled  by  shapes  too  bright  to  see, 
And  rest,  having  beheld,  —  somewhat  like  thee,  — 
Which  walk  upon  the  sea,  and  chant  melodiously  ! 

END    OF   THE    SECOND   ACT.^ 

*  The  secoad  act,  in  which  the  myth  of  Asia  is  unfolded,  is  poetically 
the  most  wonderful  in  the  Prometheus  Unbound,  —  that  is  to  say,  in  the 
whole  cycle  of  English  song.  —  Vida  D.  Scudder. 


[    in] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

The  third  act  having  accomplished  the  release  of  Prometheus  and 
his  reunion  with  Asia,  Act  IV  follows  with  its  chorus  of  rejoicing,  in 
which  all  powers  of  earth  and  air,  of  the  world  natural  and  the  world 
spiritual,  unite. 

TROM  ACT  IV  OF  "PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND" 

Voice  of  unseen  Spirits. 
The  pale  stars  are  gone  ! 
For  the  sun,  their  swift  shepherd, 
.    To  their  fokls  them  compelling, 
In  the  depths  of  the  dawn. 
Hastes,  in  meteor-eclipsing  array,  and  they  flee 
Beyond  his  blue  dwelling. 
As  fawns  flee  the  leopard. 
But  where  are  ye  ? 

A  Train  of  dark  Forms  and  Shadows  passes  hy 
confusedly,  singing. 

Here,  oh,  here : 

We  bear  the  bier 
Of  the  Father  of  many  a  cancelled  year ! 

Spectres  we 

Of  the  dead  Hours  be. 
We  bear  Time  to  his  tomb  in  eternity. 

Strew,  oh,  strew 

Hair,  not  yew ! 
Wet  the  dusty  pall  Avith  tears,  not  dew  ! 

Be  the  faded  flowers 

Of  Death^s  bare  bowers 
Spread  on  the  corpse  of  the  King  of  Hours ! 
[118] 


THE   YEAR   1819 

Haste,  oh,  haste ! 

As  shades  are  chased. 
Trembling,  bj  day,  from  heaven's  blue  waste. 

We  melt  away. 

Like  dissolving  spray. 
From  the  children  of  a  diviner  day. 

With  the  lullaby 

Of  winds  that  die 
On  the  bosom  of  their  own  harmony  ! 

lone. 

Even  whilst  we  speak 
New  notes  arise.     What  is  that  awful  sound  ? 

Panthea. 

'T  is  the  deep  music  of  the  rolling  world 
Kindling  within  the  strings  of  the  waved  air, 
^olian  modulations. 

lone. 

Listen  too. 
How  every  pause  is  filled  with  uudernotes. 
Clear,  silver,  icy,  keen,  awakening  tones, 
Which  pierce  the  sense,  and  live  within  the  soul. 
As  the  sharp  stars  pierce  Winter's  crystal  air 
And  gaze  upon  themselves  within  the  sea. 

Panthea. 

But  see  where,  through  two  openings  in  the  forest 
Which  hanging  branches  overcanopy, 
[119  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

And  where  two  runnels  of  a  rivulet, 

Between  the  close  moss  violet-inwoven, 

Have  made  their  path  of  melody,  like  sisters 

Who  part  with  sighs  that  they  may  meet  in  smiles. 

Turning  their  dear  disunion  to  an  isle 

Of  lovely  grief,  a  wood  of  sweet  sad  thoughts, 

Two  visions  of  strange  radiance  float  upon 

The  ocean-like  enchantment  of  strong  sound. 

Which  flows  intenser,  keener,  deeper  yet 

Under  the  ground  and  through  the  windless  air. 

lone. 

I  see  a  chariot  like  that  thinnest  boat. 
In  which  the  Mother  of  the  Months  is  borne 
By  ebbing  night  into  her  western  cave. 
When  she  upsprings  from  interlunar  dreams. 
O'er  which  is  curved  an  orb-like  canopy 
Of  gentle  darkness,  and  the  hills  and  woods. 
Distinctly  seen  through  that  dusk  airy  veil, 
Kegard  Hke  shapes  in  an  enchanter's  glass; 
Its  wheels  are  solid  clouds,  azure  and  gold, 
Such  as  the  genii  of  the  thunderstorm 
Pile  on  the  floor  of  the  illumined  sea 
When  the  sun  rushes  under  it ;  they  roll 
And  move  and  grow  as  with  an  inward  wind; 
Within  it  sits  a  winged  infant,  white 
Its  countenance,  like  the  whiteness  of  bright  snow. 
Its  plumes  are  as  feathers  of  sunny  frost, 
Its  limbs  gleam  white,  through  the  wind-flowing  fold: 
Of  its  white  robe,  woof  of  ethereal  pearl. 
[  120] 


THE   YEAR   1819 

Its  hair  is  white,  the  brightness  of  white  light 

Scattered  in  strings ;  yet  its  two  eyes  are  heavens 

Of  liquid  darkness,  which  the  Deity 

Within  seems  pouring,  as  a  storm  is  poured 

From  jagged  clouds,  out  of  their  arrowy  lashes, 

Tempering  the  cold  and  radiant  air  around 

With  fire  that  is  not  brightness ;  in  its  hand 

It  sways  a  quivering  moonbeam,  from  whose  point 

A  guiding  power  directs  the  chariot''s  prow 

Over  its  wheeled  clouds,  which  as  they  roll 

Over  the  grass,  and  flowers,  and  waves,  wake  sounds 

Sweet  as  a  singing  rain  of  silver  dew. 

Panthea. 

And  from  the  other  opening  in  the  wood 
Eushes,  ^vith  loud  and  whirlwind  harmony, 
A  sphere,  which  is  as  many  thousand  spheres, 
Solid  as  crystal,  yet  through  all  its  mass 
Flow,  as  through  empty  space,  music  and  light : 
Ten  thousand  orbs  involving  and  involved. 
Purple  and  azure,  white,  and  green,  and  golden, 
Sphere  within  sphere  ;  and  every  shape  between 
Peopled  with  unimaginable  shapes, 
Such  as  ghosts  dream  dwell  in  the  lampless  deep, 
Yet  each  inter-transpicuous,  and  they  whirl 
Over  each  other  with  a  thousand  motions, 
Upon  a  thousand  sightless  axles  spinning, 
And  with  the  force  of  self-destroying  swiftness, 
Intensely,  slowly,  solemnly  roll  on. 
Kindling  with  mingled  sounds,  and  many  tones, 
[  121  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN  ITALY 

Intelligible  words  and  music  wild. 

With  mighty  whirl  the  multitudinous  orb 

Grinds  the  bright  brook  into  an  azure  mist 

Of  elemental  subtlety,  like  light ; 

And  the  wild  odour  of  the  forest  flowers, 

The  music  of  the  living  grass  and  air, 

The  emerald  light  of  leaf-entangled  beams 

Round  its  intense  yet  self-conflicting  speed. 

Seem  kneaded  into  one  aerial  mass 

Which  drowns  the  sense.     Within  the  orb  itself. 

Pillowed  upon  its  alabaster  arms, 

Like  to  a  child  o'erwearied  with  sweet  toil. 

On  its  own  folded  wings,  and  wavy  hair. 

The  Spirit  of  the  Earth  is  laid  asleep. 

And  you  can  see  its  little  lips  are  moving, 

Amid  the  changing  light  of  their  own  smiles, 

Like  one  who  talks  of  what  he  loves  in  dream. 

lone. 
"I  is  only  mocking  the  orb's  harmony. 

Panthea. 

And  from  a  star  upon  its  forehead,  shoot. 
Like  swords  of  azure  fire,  or  golden  spears 
With  tyrant-quelling  myrtle  overtwined. 
Embleming  heaven  and  earth  united  now, 
Vast  beams  like  spokes  of  some  invisible  wheel 
Which  whirl  as  the  orb  whirls,  swifter  than  thought, 
Filling  the  abyss  with  sun-like  lightnings. 
And  perpendicular  now,  and  now  transverse, 
[  122  ] 


THE   YEAR    1819 

Pierce  the  dark  soil,  and  as  they  pierce  and  pass, 
Make  bare  the  secrets  of  the  earth's  deep  heart ; 
Infinite  mine  of  adamant  and  gold, 
Yalueless  stones,  and  unimagined  gems, 
And  caverns  on  crystalline  columns  poised 
With  vegetable  silver  overspread ; 
Wells  of  unfathomed  fire,  and  water  springs 
Whence  the  great  sea,  even  as  a  child,  is  fed. 
Whose  vapours  clothe  earth's  monarch  mountain-tops 
With  kingly,  ermine  snow.     The  beams  flash  on 
And  make  appear  the  melancholy  ruins 
Of  cancelled  cycles ;  anchors,  beaks  of  ships ; 
Planks  turned  to  marble ;  quivers,  helms,  and  spears. 
And  gorgon-headed  targes,  and  the  wheels 
Of  scythed  chariots,  and  the  emblazonry 
Of  trophies,  standards,  and  armorial  beasts, 
Eound  which  death  laughed,  sepulchred  emblems 
Of  dead  destruction,  ruin  within  ruin  ! 
The  wrecks  beside  of  many  a  city  vast. 
Whose  population  which  the  earth  grew  over 
Was  mortal,  but  not  hnman ;  see,  they  lie, 
Their  monstrous  works,  and  uncouth  skeletons. 
Their  statues,  homes  and  fanes  ;  prodigious  shapes 
Huddled  in  grey  annihilation,  split. 
Jammed  in  the  hard,  black  deep ;  and  over  these. 
The  anatomies  of  unknown  winged  things, 
And  fishes  which  were  isles  of  living  scale, 
And  serpents,  bony  chains,  twisted  around 
The  iron  crags,  or  within  heaps  of  dust 
To  which  the  tortuous  strength  of  their  last  pangs 
[  123  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

Had  crushed  the  iron  crags  ;  and  over  these 

The  jagged  alligator,  and  the  might 

Of  earth-convulsing  behemoth,  which  once 

Were  monarch  beasts,  and  on  the  slimj  shores 

And  weed-overgrown  continents  of  earth 

Increased  and  multiplied  like  Summer  worms 

On  an  abandoned  corpse,  till  the  blue  globe 

Wrapt  deluge  round  it  like  a  cloak,  and  they 

Yelled,  gasped,  and  were  abolished ;  or  some  God 

Whose  throne  was  in  a  comet,  passed  and  cried 

"  Be  not ! "     And  like  my  words  they  were  no  more. 

Demogorgon. 
This  is  the  day,  which  down  the  void  abysm 
At  the  Earth-bom's  spell  yawns  for  Heaven's  despotism. 

And  Conquest  is  dragged  captive  through  the  deep: 
Love,  from  its  awful  throne  of  patient  power 
In  the  wise  heart,  from  the  last  giddy  hour 

Of  dread  endurance,  from  the  slippery,  steep, 
And  narrow  verge  of  crag-like  agony,  sprmgs 
And  folds  over  the  world  its  healing  wings. 

Gentleness,  Virtue,  Wisdom,  and  Endurance, 
These  are  the  seals  of  that  most  firm  assurance 

Which  bars  the  pit  over  Destruction's  strength; 
And  if,  with  infirm  hand.  Eternity, 
Mother  of  many  acts  and  hours,  should  free 

The  serpent  that  would  clasp  her  with  his  length. 
These  are  the  spells  by  which  to  reassume 
An  empire  o'er  the  disentangled  doom. 
[  124  ] 


THE   YEAR   1819 

To  suffer  woes  which  Hope  thinks  infinite ; 
To  forgive  wrongs  darker  than  death  or  night ; 

To  defy  Power,  which  seems  omnipotent ; 
To  love,  and  bear ;  to  hope  till  Hope  creates 
From  its  own  wreck  the  thing  it  contemplates ; 

Neither  to  change,  nor  falter,  nor  repent ; 
This,  like  thy  glory,  Titan,  is  to  be 
Good,  great  and  joyous,  beautiful  and  free; 
This  is  alone  Life,  Joy,  Empire,  and  Yictory. 

EoME,  April  6,  1819. 

•  ••••• 

My  "Prometheus  Unbound"  is  just  finished,  and  in  a 
month  or  two  I  shall  send  it.  It  is  a  drama,  with  char- 
acters and  mechanism  of  a  kind  yet  unattempted;  and 
I  think  the  execution  is  better  than  any  of  my  former 
attempts.  By-the-bye,  have  you  seen  Oilier?  I  never 
hear  from  him,  and  am  ignorant  whether  some  verses 
I  sent  him  from  Naples,  entitled,  I  think,  '^  Lines  on 
the  Euganean  Hills,"  have  reached  him  in  safety  or  not. 
As  to  the  Reviews,  I  suppose  there  is  nothing  but  abuse  ; 
and  this  is  not  hearty  or  sincere  enough  to  amuse  me. 
As  to  the  poem  now  printmg,^  I  lay  no  stress  on  it  one 
way  or  the  other.     The  concluding  lines  are  natural. 

I  believe,  my  dear  Peacock,  that  you  wish  us  to  come 
back  to  England.  How  is  it  possible?  Health,  compe- 
tence, tranquillity  —  all  these  Italy  permits,  and  England 
takes  away.  I  am  regarded  by  all  who  know  or  hear  of 
me,  except,  I  think,  on  the  whole,  five  individuals,  as  a 

^  Rosalind  and  Helen. 

[125] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

rare  prodigy  of  crime  and  pollution,  whose  look  even 
might  infect.  This  is  a  large  computation,  and  I  don^t 
think  I  could  mention  more  than  three.  Such  is  the 
spirit  of  the  English  abroad  as  well  as  at  home. 

Few  compensate,  indeed,  for  all  the  rest,  and  if  I  were 
alone  I  should  laugh ;  or  if  I  were  rich  enough  to  do  all 
things,  which  I  shall  never  be.  Pity  me  for  my  absence 
from  those  social  enjoyments  which  England  might  afford 
me,  and  which  I  know  so  well  how  to  appreciate.  Still,  I 
shall  return  some  fine  morning,  out  of  pure  weakness  of 
heart. 

To  THOMAS   LOVE   PEACOCK, 
On  the  Publication  of  his  '^  Nightmare  Abbey.-" 

LivoRNO,  July  6,  1819. 

We  have  changed  our  design  of  going  to  Florence  im- 
mediately, and  are  now  estabhshed  for  three  months  in 
a  little  country  house  ^  in  a  pretty  verdant  scene  near 
Livorno. 

I  have  a  study  here  in  a  tower  something  like  Scythrop's,^ 
where  I  am  just  beginning  to  recover  the  faculties  of 
reading  and  writing.^  .  .  .  From  my  tower  I  see  the  sea 
with  its  islands,  Gorgona,  Capraja,  Elba,  and  Corsica  on 
one  side,  and  the  Apennines  on  the  other. 

1  Now  knowE  as  Villa  Mecocci,  on  Via  del  Fagiano,  Leghorn. 

-  A  character  in  'Nightmare  Ahheij  somewhat  resembling  Shelley.  The 
"  tower  "  no  longer  exists,  hut  the  house-top  is  enclosed  by  a  low  parapet  of 
brick  and  commands  the  same  extensive  view.  Mrs.  Shelley  says,  "  In  this 
airy  cell  he  wrote  the  principal  part  oiThe  Cenci." 

3  After  the  death  of  his  son  WUliam  in  Rome  on  June  7th. 

[  126  ] 


)()KTU.\IT  of  Ik'iitrice  Ccnci.     In 
thf  I5:irl)iiiiii  Gallerv,  Home. 


-See  Preface  to  "The  Ceuci,  "  p.  I'- 


THE   YEAR   1819 

All  good  wishes  and  many  hopes  that  you  have  already 
that  success  on  which  there  will  be  no  congratulations 
more  cordial  than  those  you  will  receive  from  me. 


PROM  THE  PREFACE  TO^^THECENCI 


}'i 


On  my  arrival  at  Rome  I  found  that  the  story  of  the 
Cenci  was  a  subject  not  to  be  mentioned  in  Italian  society 
without  awakening  a  deep  and  breathless  interest ;  and  that 
the  feelings  of  the  company  never  failed  to  incline  to  a 
romantic  pity  for  the  wrongs,  and  a  passionate  exculpation 
of  the  horrible  deed  to  which  they  urged  her  who  has  been 
mingled  two  centuries  with  the  common  dust.  All  ranks 
of  people  knew  the  outlines  of  this  history,  and  participated 
in  the  overwhelming  interest  which  it  seems  to  have  the 
magic  of  exciting  in  the  human  heart.  I  had  a  copy  of 
Guido's  picture  of  Beatrice  which  is  preserved  in  the 
Colonna  Palace,  and  my  servant  instantly  recognised  it 
as  the  portrait  of  Za   Cenci. 

1  endeavored  whilst  at  Rome  to  observe  such  monu- 
ments of  this  story  as  might  be  accessible  to  a  stranger. 
The  portrait  of  Beatrice  at  the  Colonna  Palace^  is  admi- 
rable as  a  work  of  art :  it  was  taken  by  Guido  during  her 
confinement  in  prison.  But  it  is  most  interesting  as  a 
just  representation  of  one  of  the  loveliest  specimens  of  the 
workmanship  of  Nature.     There  is  a  fixed  and  pale  com- 

^  Shelley's  ardent  desire  to  have  his  tragedy  presented  on  the  London 
stage  was  never  realized  dui-ing  his  life.  Its  first  performance  took  place 
there  May  7,  1886,  under  the  auspices  of  the  Shelley  Society. 

2  Now  in  the  Barberini  Palace.  —  Ed. 

[  127  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN  ITALY 

posure  upon  the  features :  she  seems  sad  and  stricken  down 
in  spirit^  yet  the  despair  thus  expressed  is  lightened  by 
the  patience  of  gentleness.  Her  head  is  bound  with  folds 
of  white  drapery,  from  which  the  yellow  strings  of  her 
golden  hair  escape,  and  fall  about  her  neck.  The  mould- 
ing of  her  face  is  exquisitely  delicate;  the  eyebrows  are 
distinct  and  arched :  the  lips  have  that  permanent  meaning 
of  imagination  and  sensibility  which  suffering  has  not 
repressed  and  which  it  seems  as  if  death  scarcely  could 
extinguish.  Her  forehead  is  large  and  clear;  her  eyes, 
which  we  are  told  were  remarkable  for  their  vivacity,  are 
swollen  with  weeping  and  lustreless,  but  beautifully  tender 
and  serene.  In  the  whole  mien  there  is  a  simplicity  and 
dignity  which,  united  with  her  exquisite  loveliness  and  deep 
sorrow,  are  inexpressibly  pathetic.  Beatrice  Cenci  appears 
to  have  been  one  of  those  rare  persons  in  whom  energy  and 
gentleness  dwell  together  without  destroying  one  another : 
her  nature  was  simple  and  profound.  The  crimes  and 
miseries  in  which  she  was  an  actor  and  a  sufferer  are  as 
the  mask  and  the  mantle  in  which  circumstances  clothed 
her  for  her  impersonation  on  the  scene  of  the  world. 

The  Cenci  Palace  is  of  great  extent;  and  though  in  part 
modernised,  there  yet  remains  a  vast  and  gloomy  pile  of 
feudal  architecture  in  the  same  state  as  during  the  dreadfal 
scenes  which  are  the  subject  of  this  tragedy.  The  Palace 
is  situated  in  an  obscure  corner  of  Rome,  near  the  quarter 
of  the  Jews,  and  from  the  upper  windows  you  see  the  im- 
mense ruins  of  Mount  Palatine  half  hidden  under  their 
profuse  overgrowth  of  trees.  There  is  a  court  in  one 
part  of  the  Palace  (  perhaps  that  in  which  Cenci  built  the 
[  128  ] 


THE   YEAR   1819 

Chapel  to  St.  Thomas  ),  supported  by  granite  columns  and 
adorned  Avith  antique  friezes  of  fine  workmanship,  and  built 
up,  according  to  the  ancient  Italian  fashion,  with  balcony 
over  balcony  of  open-work.  One  of  the  gates  of  the  Palace 
formed  of  immense  stones  and  leading  through  a  passage, 
dark  and  lofty  and  opening  into  gloomy  subterranean 
chambers,  struck  me  particularly. 

CLOSING   SCENES   OF   "THE  CENQ " 

Beatrice  is  in  prison  awaiting  sentence  for  the  murder  of  her 
father.  She  is  visited  there  by  her  stepmother  Lucretia,  her 
brothers  Bernardo  and  Giacomo,  and  by  Cardinal  Camillo. 

Act  Y.  Scene  III  —  The  Cell  of  a  Prison.  Bea- 
trice is  discovered  asleep  on  a  couch.  Enter 
Bernardo. 

Bernardo. 

How  gently  slumber  rests  upon  her  face, 

Like  the  last  thoughts  of  some  day  sweetly  spent 

Closing  in  night  and  dreams,  and  so  prolonged. 

After  such  torments  as  she  bore  last  night, 

How  hght  and  soft  her  breathing  comes.     Ah  me ! 

Methinks  that  I  shall  never  sleep  again. 

But  I  must  shake  the  heavenly  dew  of  rest 

From  this  sweet  folded  flower,  thus  .  .  .  wake  !  awake  ! 

"What,  sister,  canst  thou  sleep  ? 

Beatrice  [awaking) . 

I  Avas  just  dreaming 
That  we  were  all  in  Paradise.     Thou  knowest 
This  cell  seems  like  a  kind  of  Paradise 
After  our  father's  presence. 
9  [  129  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

Bernardo. 

Dear,  dear  sister. 
Would  that  thy  dream  were  not  a  dream  !     0  God  ! 
How  shaU  I  tell  ? 

Beatrice. 
What  wouldst  thou  tell,  sweet  brother  ? 

Bernardo. 

Look  not  so  calm  and  happy,  or  even  whilst 
I  stand  considering  what  I  have  to  say 
My  heart  will  break. 

Beatrice. 

See  now,  thou  mak^st  me  weep  : 
How  very  friendless  thou  wouldst  be,  dear  child. 
If  I  were  dead.     Say  what  thou  hast  to  say. 

Bernardo. 

They  have  confessed  ;  they  could  endure  no  more 
The  tortures  .  .  . 

Beatrice. 

Ha  !     What  was  there  to  confess  ? 
They  must  have  told  some  weak  and  wicked  lie 
To  flatter  their  tormentors.     Have  they  said 
That  they  were  guilty  ?     0  white  Innocence, 
That  thou  shouldst  wear  the  mask  of  guilt  to  hide 
Thine  awful  and  serenest  countenance 
From  those  who  know  thee  not  ! 
[  130  ] 


THE   YEAR   1819 


Enter  Judge  with  Ltjcretia  and  Giacomo,  guarded. 

Ignoble  hearts ! 
For  some  brief  spasms  of  pain,  which  are  at  least 
As  mortal  as  the  limbs  through  which  they  pass, 
Are  centuries  of  high  splendour  laid  in  dust  ? 
And  that  eternal  honour  whicli  should  live 
Sunlike,  above  the  reek  of  mortal  fame, 
Changed  to  a  mockery  and  a  bye-word  ?     What ! 
Will  you  give  up  these  bodies  to  be  dragged 
At  horses'  heels,  so  that  our  hair  should  sweep 
The  footsteps  of  the  vain  and  senseless  crowd, 
Who,  that  they  may  make  our  calamity 
Their  worship  and  their  spectacle,  will  leave 
The  churches  and  the  theatres  as  void 
As  their  own  hearts  ?     Shall  the  light  multitude 
Fling,  at  their  choice,  curses  or  faded  pity. 
Sad  funeral  flowers  to  deck  a  living  corpse. 
Upon  us  as  we  pass  to  pass  away. 
And  leave  .  .  .  what  memory  of  our  having  been  ? 
Infamy,  blood,  terror,  despair  ?     0  thou. 
Who  wert  a  mother  to  the  parentless. 
Kill  not  thy  child  !     Let  not  her  wrongs  kill  thee  ! 
Brother,  lie  down  vtdth  me  upon  the  rack. 
And  let  us  each  be  silent  as  a  corpse ; 
It  soon  will  be  as  soft  as  any  grave. 
'T  is  but  the  falsehood  it  can  wring  from  fear 
Makes  the  rack  cruel. 


[131  ] 


WITH  SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

Giacomo. 

They  will  tear  the  truth 
Even  from  thee  at  last,  those  cruel  pains  : 
Por  pity^s  sake  say  thou  art  guilty  now. 

Lucretia. 

Oh,  speak  the  truth  !     Let  us  all  quickly  die ; 
And  after  death  God  is  our  judge,  not  they ; 
He  will  have  mercy  on  us. 

Bernardo. 

If  indeed 
It  can  be  true,  say  so,  dear  sister  mine ; 
And  then  the  Pope  will  surely  pardon  you, 
And  all  be  well. 

Judge. 

Confess,  or  I  will  warp 
Your  limbs  with  such  keen  tortures  .  .  . 

Beatrice. 

Tortures !     Turn 

The  rack  henceforth  into  a  spinning  wheel ! 

Torture  your  dog,  that  he  may  tell  when  last 

He  lapped  the  blood  his  master  shed  .  .  .  not  me  ! 

My  pangs  are  of  the  mind,  and  of  the  heart, 

And  of  the  soul ;  ay,  of  the  inmost  soul, 

Which  weeps  within  tears  as  of  burning  gall 

To  see,  in  this  ill  world  where  none  are  true, 

My  kindred  false  to  their  deserted  selves. 

And  with  considering  all  the  wretched  life 

[  132  ] 


c 


ENCI   PALACE  at  Rome. 


-.^^a^ 


—  See  Preface  to  "  Tlie  Ceuci,"  p.  128. 


THE   YEAR  1819 

Wliicli  I  have  lived,  and  its  now  wretched  end. 

And  the  small  justice  shown  by  Heaven  and  Earth 

To  me  or  mine ;  and  what  a  tyrant  thou  art, 

And  what  slaves  these ;  and  what  a  world  we  make, 

The  oppressor  and  the  oppressed  .  .  .  such  pangs  compel 

My  answer.     What  is  it  thou  wouldst  with  me  ? 

Judge. 
Art  thou  not  guilty  of  thy  father^s  death  ? 

Beatrice. 
Or  wilt  thou  rather  tax  high  judging  God 
That  he  permitted  such  an  act  as  that 
Which  I  have  suffered,  and  which  he  beheld; 
Made  it  unutterable,  and  took  from  it 
All  refuge,  all  revenge,  all  consequence. 
But  that  which  thou  hast  called  my  father's  death  ? 
Which  is  or  is  not  what  men  call  a  crime. 
Which  either  I  have  done,  or  have  not  done ; 
Say  what  ye  will.     I  shall  deny  no  more. 
If  ye  desire  it  thus,  thus  let  it  be. 
And  so  an  end  of  all.     Now  do  your  will ; 
No  other  pains  shall  force  another  word. 

Judge. 
She  is  convicted,  but  has  not  confessed. 
Be  it  enough.     Until  their  final  sentence 
Let  none  have  converse  with  them.     You,  young  Lord, 
Linger  not  here ! 

Beatrice. 

Oh,  tear  him  not  away  ! 
[  133  J 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN  ITALY 

Judge. 
Guards  !  do  your  dutv. 

Bernardo  {embracing  Beatrice). 

Oh  !  would  ye  divide 
Body  from  soul  ? 

Officer. 

That  is  the  headsman^s  business. 

[Exeunt  all  hut  Luceetia, 
Beatrice^  and  Giacomo. 

Giacomo. 
Have  I  confessed  ?     Is  it  all  over  now  ? 
No  hope  ?     No  refuge  ?     0  weak,  wicked  tongue 
Which  hast  destroyed  me,  would  that  thou  hadst  been 
Cut  out  and  thrown  to  dogs  first !     To  have  killed 
My  father  first,  and  then  betrayed  my  sister  — 
Ay,  thee !  the  one  thing  innocent  and  pure 
In  this  black  guilty  world  —  to  that  which  I 
So  well  deserve  !     My  wife  !  ray  little  ones  ! 
Destitute,  helpless,  and  I  .  .  .  Tather  !     God  ! 
Canst  thou  forgive  even  the  unforgiving, 
When  their  full  hearts  break  thus,  thus  !  .  .  . 

[Covers  his  face  and  weeps. 

Lucretia. 

0  my  child! 

To  what  dreadful  end  are  we  all  come ! 
Why  did  I  yield  ?     Why  did  I  not  sustain 
Those  torments  !     Oh,  that  I  were  all  dissolved 
Into  these  fast  and  unavailing  tears. 
Which  flow  and  feel  not ! 

[  134  ] 


THE  YEAR   1819 

Beatrice. 

What  ^t  -was  weak  to  do 
'T  is  weaker  to  lament,  once  being  done ; 
Take  cheer  !     The  God  who  knew  my  wrong,  and  made 
Our  speedy  act  the  angel  of  his  wrath. 
Seems,  and  but  seems,  to  have  abandoned  us. 
Let  us  not  think  that  we  shall  die  for  this. 
Brother,  sit  near  me ;  give  me  your  firm  hand. 
You  had  a  manly  heart.     Bear  up  !     Bear  up ! 
0  dearest  Lady,  put  your  gentle  head 
Upon  my  lap,  and  try  to  sleep  awhile : 
Your  eyes  look  pale,  hollow,  and  overworn. 
With  heaviness  of  watching  and  slow  grief. 
Come,  I  will  sing  you  some  low,  sleepy  tune. 
Not  cheerful,  nor  yet  sad ;  some  dull  old  thing. 
Some  outworn  and  unused  monotony. 
Such  as  our  country  gossips  sing  and  spin. 
Till  they  almost  forget  they  live  :  lie  down  ! 
So,  that  will  do.     Have  I  forgot  the  words  ? 
Faith !     They  are  sadder  than  I  thought  they  were. 

SONG 

Ealse  friend,  wilt  thou  smile  or  weep 
When  my  life  is  laid  asleep  ? 
Little  cares  for  a  smile  or  a  tear. 
The  clay-cold  corpse  ujion  the  bier ! 

Farewell !  Heigho ! 

What  is  this  whispers  low  ? 
There  is  a  snake  in  thy  smile,  my  dear ; 
And  bitter  poison  within  thy  tear. 
[  135  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

Sweet  sleep,  were  death  like  to  thee, 
Or  if  thou  couldst  mortal  be, 
I  would  close  these  eyes  of  pain ; 
When  to  wake  ?     Never  again. 

O  World!  Farewell! 

Listen  to  the  passing  bell ! 
It  says,  thou  and  I  must  part, 
With  a  light  and  a  heavy  heart. 
\The  scene  closes.] 

SCENE   IV.  — A    Hall   of    the    Prison.     Unter   Ca- 
MiLLO  and  Bernardo. 
Camillo. 
The  Pope  is  stern ;  not  to  be  moved  or  bent. 
He  looked  as  calm  and  keen  as  is  the  engine 
Which  tortures  and  which  kills,  exempt  itself 
From  aught  that  it  inflicts ;  a  marble  form, 
A  rite,  a  law,  a  custom :  not  a  man. 
He  frowned,  as  if  to  frown  had  been  the  trick 
Of  his  machinery,  on  the  advocates 
Presenting  the  defences,  which  he  tore 
And  threw  behind,  muttering  with  hoarse,  harsh  voice  : 
"  Which  among  ye  defended  their  old  father 
Killed  in  his  sleep  ?  "     Then  to  another  :  "  Thou 
Dost  this  in  virtue  of  thy  place;  ^tis  well.^^ 
He  turned  to  me  then,  looking  deprecation. 
And  said  these  three  words,  coldly  :  "  They  must  die.^' 

Bernardo. 
And  yet  you  left  him  not  ? 

[136] 


THE   YEAR  1819 

Camillo. 

I  urged  him  still ; 
Pleading,  as  I  could  guess,  the  devilish  wrong 
Which  prompted  your  unnatural  parentis  death. 
And  he  replied  :  "  Paola  Santo  Croce 
Murdered  his  mother  yester  evening, 
And  he  is  fled.     Parricide  grows  so  rife 
That  soon,  for  some  just  cause  no  doubt,  the  young 
"Will  strangle  us  all,  dozing  in  our  chairs. 
Authority,  and  power,  and  hoary  hair 
Are  grown  crimes  capital.     You  are  my  nephew. 
You  come  to  ask  their  pardon ;  stay  a  moment ; 
Here  is  their  sentence ;  never  see  me  more 
Till,  to  the  letter,  it  be  all  fulfilled." 

Bernardo. 
O  God,  not  so  !     I  did  believe  indeed 
That  all  you  said  was  but  sad  preparation 
Por  happy  news.     Oh,  there  are  words  and  looks 
To  bend  the  sternest  purpose !     Once  I  knew  them, 
Now  I  forget  them  at  my  dearest  need. 
What  think  you  if  I  seek  him  out,  and  bathe 
His  feet  and  robe  with  hot  and  bitter  tears  ? 
Importune  him  with  prayers,  vexing  his  brain 
With  my  perpetual  cries,  until  in  rage 
He  strike  me  with  his  pastoral  cross,  and  trample 
Upon  my  prostrate  head,  so  that  my  blood 
May  stain  the  senseless  dust  on  which  lie  treads, 
And  remorse  waken  mercy  ?     I  will  do  it ! 
Oh,  wait  till  I  return  !  \_Ri/shes  out. 

[  137  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

Camillo. 

Alas  !  poor  boy ! 
A  wreck-devoted  seaman  thus  might  pray 
To  the  deaf  sea. 
Enter  Lucretia,  Beatrice,  and  Giacomo,  guarded. 

Beatrice. 

I  hardly  dare  to  fear 
That  thou  bring'st  other  news  than  a  just  pardon. 

Camillo. 

May  God  in  heaven  be  less  inexorable 

To  the  Pope^s  prayers,  than  he  has  been  to  mine. 

Here  is  the  sentence  and  the  warrant. 

Beatrice  {wildly). 
Oh, 
My  God !     Can  it  be  possible  I  have 
To  die  so  suddenly  ?     So  young  to  go 
Under  the  obscure,  cold,  rotting,  wormy  ground ! 
To  be  nailed  down  into  a  narrow  place ; 
To  see  no  more  sweet  sunshine ;  hear  no  more 
Blithe  voice  of  living  thing ;  muse  not  again 
Upon  familiar  thoughts,  sad,  yet  thus  lost  — 
How  fearful !  to  be  nothing  !     Or  to  be  .  .  . 
What  ?     Oh,  where  am  I  ?     Let  me  not  go  mad  ! 
Sweet  Heaven,  forgive  weak  thoughts  !     If  there  should  be 
No  God,  no  Heaven,  no  Earth  in  the  void  world ; 
The  wide,  grey,  lampless,  deep,  unpeopled  world ! 
If  all  things  then  should  be  .   .  .  my  father's  spirit, 
[  138  ] 


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THE   YEAR   1819 

His  eye,  his  voice,  his  touch  surrounding  me ; 

The  atmosphere  and  breath  of  my  dead  life ! 

If  sometimes,  as  a  shape  more  like  himself, 

Even  the  form  which  tortured  me  on  earth. 

Masked  in  grey  hairs  and  wrinkles,  he  should  come 

And  wind  me  in  his  hellish  arms,  and  fix 

His  eyes  on  mine,  and  drag  me  down,  down,  down ! 

For  was  he  not  alone  omnipotent 

On  earth,  and  ever  present  ?     Even  tho^  dead. 

Does  not  his  spirit  live  in  all  that  breathe, 

And  work  for  me  and  mine  still  the  same  ruin. 

Scorn,  pain,  despair  ?     Who  ever  yet  returned 

To  teach  the  laws  of  death's  untrodden  realm  ? 

Unjust  perhaps  as  those  which  drive  us  now. 

Oh,  whither,  whither  ? 

Lucretia. 

Trust  in  God's  sweet  love, 
The  tender  promises  of  Christ :  ere  night. 
Think,  we  shall  be  in  Paradise. 

Beatrice. 

'T  is  past ! 
Whatever  comes  my  heart  shall  sink  no  more. 
And  yet,  I  know  not  why,  your  words  strike  chill : 
How  tedious,  false  and  cold  seem  all  things.     I 
Have  met  with  much  injustice  in  this  world ; 
No  difference  has  been  made  by  God  or  man. 
Or  any  power  moulding  my  wretched  lot, 
'T  wixt  good  or  evil,  as  regarded  me. 
I  am  cut  off  from  the  only  Avorld  I  know, 
[  139  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

Prom  light,  and  life,  and  love,  in  youtVs  sweet  prime. 
You  do  well  telling  me  to  trust  in  God, 
I  hope  I  do  trust  in  him.     In  whom  else 
Can  any  trust  ?     And  yet  my  heart  is  cold. 

[^During  the  latter  speeches  Giacomo  has  retired 

conversing  with  Camillo,  who  now   goes  out; 

Giacomo  advances. 

Giacomo. 
Know  you  not,  Mother  .  .  .  Sister,  know  you  not? 
Bernardo  even  now  is  gone  to  implore 
The  Pope  to  grant  our  pardon. 

Lucretia. 

Child,  perhaps 
It  will  be  granted.     We  may  all  then  live 
To  make  these  woes  a  tale  for  distant  years : 
Oh,  what  a  thought !     It  gushes  to  my  heart 
Like  the  warm  blood, 

Beatrice. 

Yet  both  will  soon  be  cold. 
Oh,  trample  out  that  thought !     Worse  than  despair, 
Worse  than  the  bitterness  of  death,  is  hope  : 
It  is  the  only  ill  which  can  find  place 
Upon  the  giddy,  sharp,  and  narrow  hour 
Tottering  beneath  us.     Plead  with  the  swift  frost 
That  it  should  spare  the  eldest  flower  of  Spring  : 
Plead  with  awakening  earthquake,  o'er  whose  couch 
Even  now  a  city  stands,  strong,  fair,  and  free ; 
Now  stench  and  blackness  yawn,  like  death.     Oh,  plead 

[  140  ] 


THE  YEAR   1819 

With  famine,  or  wind-walking  Pestilence, 

Blind  lightning,  or  the  deaf  sea,  not  with  man  1 

Cruel,  cold,  formal  man ;  righteous  in  words. 

In  deeds  a  Cain.     No,  Mother,  we  must  die : 

Since  such  is  the  reward  of  innocent  lives, 

Such  the  alleviation  of  worst  wrongs. 

And  whilst  our  murderers  live,  and  hard,  cold  men. 

Smiling  and  slow,  walk  thro'  a  world  of  tears 

To  death  as  to  life's  sleep  ;  't  were  just  the  grave 

Were  some  strange  joy  for  us.     Come,  obscure  Death, 

And  wind  me  in  thine  all-embracing  arms ! 

Like  a  fond  mother  hide  me  in  thy  bosom. 

And  rock  me  to  the  sleep  from  which  none  wake ! 

Live  ye,  who  live,  subject  to  one  another 

As  we  were  once,  who  now  .  .  . 

[Bernardo  rushes  in. 

Bernardo. 

Oh,  horrible, 
That  tears,  that  looks,  that  hope  poured  forth  in  prayer, 
Even  till  the  heart  is  vacant  and  despairs. 
Should  all  be  vain !     The  ministers  of  death 
Are  waiting  round  the  doors.     I  thought  I  saw 
Blood  on  the  face  of  one  .  .  .  What  if  't  were  fancy  ? 
Soon  the  heart's  blood  of  all  I  love  on  earth 
Will  sprinkle  him,  and  he  will  wipe  it  off 
As  if  't  were  only  rain.     O  life  !  O  world ! 
Cover  me  !  let  me  be  no  more  !     To  see 
That  perfect  mirror  of  pure  innocence 
Wherein  I  gazed,  and  grew  happy  and  good, 
[  141  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

Shivered  to  dust !     To  see  thee^  Beatrice, 

Who  made  all  lovely  thou  didst  look  upon  .  .  . 

Thee,  light  of  life  .  .  .  dead,  dark  !  while  I  saj,  "  Sister," 

To  hear  I  have  no  sister ;  and  thou,  Mother, 

Whose  love  was  as  a  bond  to  all  our  loves  .  .  . 

Dead  1     The  sweet  bond  broken  ! 

Enter  Camillo  and  Guards. 

Thej  come !     Let  me 
Kiss  those  warm  lips  before  their  crimson  leaves 
Are  blighted  .  .  .  white  .  .  .  cold.     Say  farewell,  before 
Death  chokes  that  gentle  voice !     Oh,  let  me  hear 
You  speak ! 

Beatrice. 

Parewell,  my  tender  brother.     Think 
Of  our  sad  fate  with  gentleness,  as  now  : 
And  let  mild,  pitying  thoughts  lighten  for  thee 
Thy  sorrow's  load.     Err  not  in  harsli  despair, 
But  tears  and  patience.     One  thing  more,  my  child, 
For  thine  own  sake  be  constant  to  the  love 
Thou  bearest  us  ;  and  to  the  faith  that  I, 
Tho-*  wrapt  in  a  strange  cloud  of  crime  and  shame. 
Lived  ever  holy  and  unstained.     And  tho' 
HI  tongues  shall  wound  me,  and  our  common  name 
Be  as  a  mark  stamped  on  thine  innocent  brow 
Por  men  to  point  at  as  they  pass,  do  thou 
Porbear,  and  never  think  a  thought  unkind 
Of  those  who  perhaps  love  thee  in  their  graves. 
So  mayest  thou  die  as  I  do,  fear  and  pain 
Being  subdued.     Farewell !  Farewell !  Farewell ! 

[  142  ] 


w 


THE   YEAR  1819 

Bernardo. 
I  cannot  say  farewell ! 

Camillo. 
O  Lady  Beatrice  I 

Beatrice, 
Give  yourself  no  unnecessary  pain. 
My  dear  Lord  Cardinal.     Here,  Mother,  tie 
My  girdle  for  me,  and  bind  up  this  hair 
In  any  simple  knot ;  ay,  that  does  well. 
And  yours  I  see  is  coming  down.     How  often 
Have  we  done  this  for  one  another  !  now 
We  shall  not  do  it  any  more.     My  Lord, 
We  are  quite  ready.     Well,  'i  is  very  well. 

THE    END. 

FRAGMEXT 

ON  THE  MEDUSA  OF  LEONARDO  DA  VINCI  IN  THE 
ELORENTINE  GALLERY 

I 

It  lieth,  gazing  on  the  midnight  sky, 
Upon  the  cloudy  mountain  peak  supine: 

Below,  far  lands  are  seen  tremblingly ; 
Its  horror  and  its  beauty  are  divine. 

Upon  its  lips  and  eyelids  seems  to  lie 

Loveliness  like  a  shadow,  from  which  shine. 

Fiery  and  lurid,  struggling  underneath. 

The  agonies  of  anguish  and  of  death. 
[  143  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN  ITALY 

n 

Yet  it  is  less  tlie  horror  than  the  grace 
Which  turns  the  gazer^s  spirit  into  stone ; 

Whereon  the  lineaments  of  that  dead  face 
Are  graven,  till  the  characters  be  grown 

Into  itself,  and  thought  no  more  can  trace ; 
■'T  is  the  melodious  hues  of  beauty  thrown 

Athwart  the  darkness  and  the  glare  of  pain, 

Which  humanise  and  harmonise  the  strain. 

in 

And  from  its  head  as  from  one  body  grow. 
As  grass  out  of  a  watery  rock, 

Hairs  which  are  vipers,  and  they  curl  and  flow 
And  their  long  tangles  in  each  other  lock. 

And  with  unending  involutions  show 

Their  mailed  radiance,  as  it  were  to  mock 

The  torture  and  the  death  within,  and  saw 

The  solid  air  with  many  a  ragged  jaw. 

IV 

And,  from  a  stone  beside,  a  poisonous  eft 
Peeps  idly  into  those  Gorgonian  eyes  ; 

Whilst  in  the  air  a  ghastly  bat,  bereft 
Of  sense,  has  flitted  with  a  mad  surprise 

Out  of  the  cave  this  hideous  light  had  cleft. 
And  he  comes  hastening  like  a  moth  that  hies 

After  a  taper;  and  the  midnight  sky 

Flares,  a  light  more  dread  than  obscurity. 
[  144  ] 


THE   YEAR   1819 


'T  is  the  tempestuous  loveliness  of  terror ; 

For  from  the  serpents  gleams  a  brazen  glare 
Kindled  by  that  inextricable  error, 

Which  makes  a  thrilling  vapour  of  the  air 
Become  a  .   .   .  and  ever-shifting  mirror 

Of  all  the  beauty  and  the  terror  there  — 
A  woman's  countenance,  with  serpent  locks, 
Gazing  in  death  on  heaven  from  those  wet  rocks. 


LOVE'S  PHILOSOPHY 


The  fountains  mingle  with  the  river 

And  the  rivers  with  the  ocean, 
The  winds  of  heaven  mix  for  ever 

With  a  sweet  emotion ; 
Nothing  in  the  world  is  single ; 

All  things  by  a  law  divine 
In  one  spirit  meet  and  mingle. 

Why  not  I  with  thine  ?  — 

n 

See,  the  mountains  kiss  high  heaven 
And  the  waves  clasp  one  another ; 
No  sister-flower  would  be  forgiven 
If  it  disdained  its  brother, 
10  [  145  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

And  the  sunlight  clasps  the  earth 
And  the  moonbeams  kiss  the  sea  : 

What  is  all  this  sweet  work  worth 
If  thou  kiss  not  me  ? 


ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND  i 

I 

O  WILD  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being, 
Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleehig, 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red. 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes  :  0  thou. 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and  low. 
Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  Spring  shall  blow 

Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  living  hues  and  odours  plain  and  hill : 

1  This  poem  was  conceived  and  chiefly  written  in  a  wood  that  skirts  the 
Arno,  near  Florence,  and  on  a  day  when  that  tempestuous  wind,  whose 
temperature  is  at  once  mild  and  animating,  was  collecting  the  vapours 
which  pour  down  the  autumnal  rains.  They  began,  as  I  foresaw,  at  sunset 
with  a  violent  tempest  of  hail,  and  rain,  attended  by  that  magnificent  thun- 
der and  lightning  peculiar  to  the  Cisalpine  regions. 

The  phenomenon  alluded  to  at  the  conclusion  of  the  third  stanza  is  well 
known  to  naturalists.  The  vegetation  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  of  rivers,  and 
of  lakes,  sympathises  with  that  of  the  land  in  the  change  of  seasons,  and  is  con- 
sequently influenced  by  the  winds  which  announce  it.  —  Shelley's  Note. 

[  146  ] 


w 


OODS  of  tlie  Casciiie  mid  the  Uiver  Ariio,  near  Florence. 


"  Thin  poem  was  conceired  and  chiejti/  written  in  a  loood 
that  skirts  the  Arno,  near  Florence.'' 

-  Shelley's  Note  to  the  "Ode  to  the  West  Wmd,"  p.l4(j. 


THE    YEAR   1819 

Wild  Spirit,  wliicli  art  moving  everywhere  j 
Destroyer  and  preserver ;  hear,  Oh  hear ! 

II 

Thou  on  whose  stream,  'mid  the  steep  sky's  commotion, 
Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves  are  shed. 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  Heaven  and  Ocean, 

Angels  of  rain  and  lightning  :  there  are  spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge. 
Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 

Of  some  fierce  Maenad,  even  from  the  dim  verge 

Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height 

The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.     Thou  dirge 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 
Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre. 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapours,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 

Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail  will  burst :  Oh  hear  ! 

ni 

Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  Summer  dreams 
The  blue  j\Iediterranean,  where  he  lay. 
Lulled  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams, 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baise's  bay. 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day, 
[147] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss  and  flowers 

So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them  !     Thou 

For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far  below 
The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which  wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  grey  with  fear. 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves  :  Oh  hear  ! 

IV 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear ; 

If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee  ; 

A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thou,  O  uncontrollable  !     If  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven, 

As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skiey  speed 

Scarce  seemed  a  vision ;  I  would  ne'er  have  striven 

As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 
Oh,  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud  ! 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life !     I  bleed  ! 

A  heavy  Aveight  of  hours  has  chained  and  bowed 
One  too  like  thee  :  tameless,  and  swift,  and  proud. 
[  148  ] 


THE   YEAR  1819 

V 

Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is  : 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own  ? 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep,  autumnal  tone, 
Sweet  though  in  sadness.     Be  thou,  Spirit  fierce, 
My  spirit !     Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one  ! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe 
Like  withered  leaves  to  quicken  a  new  birth ! 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse. 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind  ! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 

The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy  !     0  Wind, 

If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind  ? 

THE   INDIAN   SERENADE  i 
I 

I  ARISE  from  dreams  of  thee 
In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 
When  the  winds  are  breathing  low. 
And  the  stars  are  shining  bright : 

1  The  Indian  Serenade,  written  probably  ia  1819,  but  not  published 
until  after  Sbelley's  death,  was  found  together  with  a  volume  of  Keats  on 
Shelley's  body  when  washed  ashore  by  the  sea.  The  manuscript  was  ex- 
amined by  Robert  Browning  in  1857,  who  wrote  of  it,  "  It  is  preserved 
religiously  ;  but  the  characters  are  all  but  illegible,  and  I  needed  a  strong 
magnifying-glass  to  be  quite  sure  of  those  that  remain.  The  end  is  that  I 
have  rescued  three  or  four  variations  in  the  reading  of  that  divine  little 
poem — as  one  reads  it,  at  least,  in  the  Posthumous  Poems." 

[  149  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee. 
And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 
Hath  led  me  —  who  knows  how  ? 
To  thy  chamber  window,  Sweet ! 

II 

The  wandering  airs  they  faint 
On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream  — 
And  the  Champak  odours  fail 
Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream ; 
The  nightingale's  complaint, 
It  dies  upon  her  heart ;  — 
As  I  must  die  on  thine, 
0 !  beloved  as  thou  art ! 

Ill 
Oh  lift  me  from  the  grass  ! 
I  die!  I  faint!  I  fail ! 
Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 
On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 
My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas  1 
My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast ;  — 
Oh !  press  it  to  thine  own  again. 
Where  it  will  break  at  last. 


[150] 


THE   YEARS  1820  AND  1821 


5.  >- 


er  ;4. 


!S 


I     -, 


THE   YEARS  1820  AND  1821 

LEGHORN;  PISA 

INTRODUCTORY 

jT  'J'AD  Shelley's  poxcers  been  less  innately  poetic 
£  M,  and  less  hituitive^  they  must  have  been  silenced 
by  tkk  time,  since  his  productio?is  hitherto  had 
fallen  upon  an  indifferent  or  hostile  zvorld.  But  from 
this  time  forivard,  for  the  short  remainder  of  his  life,  he 
zaas  never  to  be  without  the  assurance  of  finding  sympa- 
thy from  an  inner  circle  of  appreciative  friends.  Early 
in  the  year  1820,  the  Shelley s  established  themselves  at 
Pisa ;  "  so  Pisa,  you  see,  has  become  a  little  nest  of  singing 
birds,''''  Mrs.  Shelley  writes  in  thefolloimng  year. 

In  the  main,  it  was  the  magnetic  personality  of  Shelley 
himself  that  made  it  so.  Lord  Byron  had  left  Ravenna 
and  taken  a  large  and  handsome  palace  across  the  Arno 
and  nearly  opposite,  for  the  sole  purpose  of  renewing  his 
companionship  zvith  Shelley ;  the  same  desire  drew  Thomas 
Medwin,  Shelley''s  second  cousin  and  collaboj'ator  at  the 
age  of  fifteen  in  some  verses  called  "  TTie  Wandering 
Jetv.''''  Medwin's  friends.  Captain  and  Mrs.  Edward 
Williams,  charmed  by  Medzmri's  tales  of  his  cousiribs  in- 
spired boyhood,  his  genius,  his  virtues,  and  his  sujf'erings, 
came  from  Switzerland  and  tooJc  apartments  in  the  same 
home  with  Shelley,  while  their  friend  Captain  Edzcard 
[153] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

Trelawney  soon  made  a  welcome  addition  to  the  group. 
Besides  these  English  friends,  there  were  the  famous 
Italians  Vacca  the  physician,  Sgricci  the  improvisator e, 
and  the  Greek  prince  Mavrocoj'dato.  For  a  time, 
Slielley's  admiration  of  Byrons  powers,  which  he  con- 
ceived to  be  far  g)-eater  than  his  oxvn,  rather  stifled  his 
genius  and  discouraged  him  from  undertaking  any  long 
zaork.  Bid  to  Prince  Mavrocordato,  and  his  j^rt  in  the 
liberation  of  Greece,  is  directly  due  the  "  Hellas,''''  —  a 
poem  in  which  Shelley  once  more  se'ized  the  oppoHunity 
to  return  to  his  favorite  theme,  the  regeneration  of  man- 
hind.  Trelawney,  of  "  knight -err aiit  aspect,  dark,  hand- 
some and  moustachised^''  appealed  to  his  imag'mation, 
and  it  is  the  idealized  portrait  of  Trelawney  that  appears 
in  the  "  Fragments  of  an  Unfinished  Dramu^''  as  the 
pirate  of  the  enchanted  isle :  — 

"  He  loas  as  is  the  sun  in  his  fierce  youth. 
As  terrible  and  lovely  as  is  the  tempest." 

As  for  the  new  friends,  the  WilUamses,  —  who  speedily 
become  '^Ned""  and  ^'' Jane'"  'm  the  familiarity  of  daily 
intercourse,  —  the  lives  of  the  four  noiv  become  so  closely 
hound  in  community  of  interests  that  henceforth  one  can 
hardly  be  cons'idered  apart  from  the  others.  Of  the  lady 
of  the  "  Ep'ipsychidion,''''  mention  already  has  been  made 
in  the  Introduction. 

At  Pisa,  as  tisual,  Shelley  found  for  himself  an  out- 
of-door  retreat  where  he  could  be  alone  zvith  his  muse. 
Between  Pisa  and  the  sea-coast  a  dense  forest,  known  as 
the  Pineta,  stretches  for  miles.  Trelawney  in  his  "  Recol- 
lections'''' has  told  how,  after  much  search,  he  discovered 
[  154  ] 


THE   YEARS   1820   AND   1821 

Shelley  there  one  day  among  the  pines,  near  a  deep  pool 
of  darlc,  glimmering  water,  by  the  side  of  which  lay  a 
hat,  books,  and  loose  papers. 

"  The  strong  light  streamed  through  the  opening  of  the  trees. 
One  of  the  pines,  undermined  by  the  water,  had  fallen  into  it. 
Under  its  lee,  and  nearly  hidden,  sat  the  poet  gazing  on  the  dark 
beneath,  and  so  lost  in  his  bardish  reverie  that  he  did  not  hear 
my  footstep.  .  .  .  He  was  writing  verses  on  a  guitar.  I  picked 
up  a  fragment,  but  could  only  make  out  the  first  two  lines  :  — 

'Ariel  to  Miranda  —  Take 
This  slave  of  music' " 

In  the  summer,  Pisa  was  exchanged  for  Leghorn  with 
its  country  walks  through  "  lanes  zahose  myrtle  hedges  were 
the  boxvers  of  fireflies,''''  and  zahere  the  skylarks  sang  as 
they  sing  only  for  the  poet ;  or  for  the  Baths  of  San 
G'nd'iano  at  the  foot  of  the  P'lsan  Mountains.  "  The  Boat 
on  the  Serchio  "  preserves  not  only  a  picture  of  the  life  at 
the  Baths,  but  also  som^  fundamental  features  of  Shelley'' s 
thought.     Surely  no  '■^  atheist ''''  he  zaho  wrote:  — 

"  All  rose  to  do  the  task  He  set  to  each 
Who  shaped  us  to  His  ends  and  not  our  own."" 

Here  news  reached  them  of  the  death  of  John  Keats  at 
Rome.  Sympathy  with  a  brother-poet  whose  treatment 
by  the  world  had  been  so  like  his  own,  and  adm'irat'ion  of 
the  supreme  poetical  g'fts  now  forever  silenced,  were  the 
inspiration  of  the  '■'■  Adonais,''''  by  Shelley  h'lmself  modestly 
appraised  as  "  the  least  imperfect  of  my  compositions.'''' 

The  poem  is  alnwst  as  much  concerned  with  Shelley 
himself  as  with  Keats.     No  one  fails  to  recognize  his  own 
self -portrait   'in  stanzas  XXXI-XXXIV,  and  the  last 
[  155  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN  ITALY 

stanza  seems  almost  a  premonition  of  his  own  fate  so 
swiftly  to  follow :  — 

"  The  breath  whose  might  I  have  invoked  in  song 

Descends  on  me  ;  my  spirit's  bark  is  driven 
Far  from  the  shore,  far  from  the  trembling  throng 

Whose  sails  were  never  to  the  tempest  given. 

The  massy  earth  and  sphered  skies  are  riven  ! 
I  am  borne  darkly,  fearfully,  afar  ! 

Whilst,  burning  through  the  inmost  veil  of  heaven, 
The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star, 
Beacons  from  the  abode  lohere  the  Eternal  are. 

Leghorn,  July  12,  1820o 

We  are  just  now  occupying  the  Gisbornes'  house  ^  at 
Leghorn,  and  I  have  turned  Mr.  Reveley's^  workshop 
into  my  study.  The  Libeccio  ^  here  howls  like  a  chorus 
of  fiends  all  day,  and  the  weather  is  just  pleasant,  —  not  at 
all  hot,  the  days  being  very  misty,  and  the  nights  divinely 
serene.  I  have  been  reading  with  much  pleasure  the 
Greek  romances.  The  best  of  them  is  the  pastoral  of 
Longus;  but  they  are  all  very  entertaining,  and  would  be 
delightful  if  they  were  less  rhetorical  and  ornate.  I  am 
translating  in  ottava  rima  the  '^  Hymn  to  Mercury "  of 
Homer.  Of  course  my  stanza  precludes  a  literal  transla- 
tion. My  next  effort  will  be  that  it  should  be  legible  —  a 
quality  much  to  be  desired  in  translations. 

^  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gisborue  were  old  friends  and  had  offered  their  house 
for  the  use  of  the  Shelleys  during  their  absence  in  England. 

2  Henry  Reveley,  an  engineer  and  the  sou  of  Mrs.  Gisborne  by  a  former 
marriage. 

^  Libeccio  is  the  hot  wind  which  blows  from  the  southwest  at  this  part 
of  the  Italian  coast. 

[  156  J 


THE   YEARS   1820   AND    1821 

I  am  told  that  the  magazines,  etc.,  blaspheme  me  at  a 
great  rate.  I  wonder  why  I  write  verses,  for  nobody 
reads  them.  It  is  a  kind  of  disorder,  for  which  the  regu- 
lar practitioners  prescribe  what  is  called  a  torrent  of  abuse, 
but  I  fear  that  can  hardly  be  considered  a  specific. 

I  enclose  two  additional  poems,  to  be  added  to  those 
printed  at  the  end  of  "  Prometheus/'  and  I  send  them  to 
you  for  fear  Oilier  might  not  know  what  to  do  in  case  he 
objected  to  some  expressions  in  the  fifteenth  and  six- 
teenth stanzas  ^ ;  and  that  you  would  do  me  the  favour  to 
insert  an  asterisk  or  asterisks  with  as  little  expense  to  the 
sense  as  may  be.  The  other  poem  I  send  to  you,  not  to 
make  two  letters. 

LETTER  TO  MARIA  GISB0RNE2 

Leghorn,  July  1,  1820. 
The  spider  spreads  lier  webs,  whether  she  be 
In  poet's  tower,  cellar,  or  barn,  or  tree  ; 
The  silk-worm  in  the  dark  green  mulberry  leaves 
His  winding  sheet  and  cradle  ever  weaves ; 
So  I,  a  thing  whom  moralists  call  worm. 
Sit  spinning  still  round  this  decaying  form. 
From  the  fine  threads  of  rare  and  subtle  thought  — 
No  net  of  words  in  garish  colours  wrought 
To  catch  the  idle  buzzers  of  the  day  — 
But  a  soft  cell  where,  when  that  fades  away, 

1  Fifteenth  and  siiteentli  stanzas  of  the  Ode  to  Liberty :  Oilier  is  the 
publisher.  —  Ed. 

2  This  poem  was  written  from  Mrs.  Gisborne's  own  house.  The  pre- 
ceding prose  letter  serves  to  explain  many  of  the  allusions  of  the  poem. 

[157] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

Memory  may  clothe  in  wings  my  living  name 
And  feed  it  with  the  asphodels  of  fame^ 
Which  in  those  hearts  which  must  remember  me 
Grow,  making  love  an  immortality. 

Whoever  should  behold  me  now,  I  wist. 
Would  think  I  were  a  mighty  mechanist. 
Bent  with  sublime  Archimedean  art 
To  breathe  a  soul  into  the  iron  heart 
Of  some  machine  portentous,  or  strange  gin. 
Which  by  the  force  of  figured  spells  might  win 
Its  way  over  the  sea,  and  sport  therein; 
For  round  the  walls  are  hung  dread  engines,  such 
As  Vulcan  never  wrought  for  Jove  to  clutch 
Ixion  or  the  Titan  :  —  or  the  quick 
Wit  of  that  man  of  God,  St.  Dominic, 
To  convince  Atheist,  Turk,  or  Heretic, 
Or  those  in  philanthropic  council  met, 
Who  thought  to  pay  some  interest  for  the  debt 
They  owed  to  Jesus  Christ  for  their  salvation. 
By  giving  a  faint  foretaste  of  damnation 
To  Shakespeare,  Sidney,  Spenser,  and  the  rest 
Who  made  our  land  an  island  of  the  blest, 
When  lamp-like  Spain,  who  now  relumes  her  fire 
On  Freedom^s  hearth,  grew  dim  with  Empire :  — 
With  thumbscrews,  wheels,  with  tooth  and  spike  and 

jag, 

Which  fishers  found  under  the  utmost  crag 
Of  Cornwall  and  the  storm-encompassed  isles. 
Where  to  the  sky  the  rude  sea  rarely  smiles 
[158] 


THE   YEARS    1820   AND   1821 

Unless  in  treacherous  wrath,  as  on  the  morn 

When  the  exulting  elements  in  scorn 

Satiated  with  destroyed  destruction,  lay 

Sleeping  in  beauty  on  their  mangled  prey. 

As  panthers  sleep ;  —  and  other  strange  and  dread 

Magical  forms  the  brick  floor  overspread,  — 

Proteus  transformed  to  metal  did  not  make 

More  figures,  or  more  strange ;  nor  did  he  take 

Such  shapes  of  unintelligible  brass. 

Or  heap  himself  in  such  a  horrid  mass 

Of  tin  and  iron  not  to  be  understood ; 

And  forms  of  unimaginable  wood. 

To  puzzle  Tubal  Cain  and  all  his  brood  : 

Great    screws,    and   cones,    and   wheels,    and   grooved 

blocks. 
The  elements  of  what  will  stand  the  shocks 
Of  wave  and  wind  and  time.  —  Upon  the  table 
More  knacks  and  quips  there  be  than  I  am  able 
To  catalogise  in  this  verse  of  mine  :  — 
A  pretty  bowl  of  wood  —  not  full  of  wine. 
But  quicksilver ;  that  dew  which  the  gnomes  drink 
When  at  their  subterranean  toil  they  swink. 
Pledging  the  demons  of  the  earthquake,  who 
Eeply  to  them  in  lava  —  cry  "  halloo  ! " 
And  call  out  to  the  cities  o'er  their  head,  — 
Eoofs,  towers,  and  shrines,  the  dying  and  the  dead, 
Crash  through  the  chinks  of  earth  —  and  then  all  quaff 
Another  rouse,  and  hold  their  sides  and  laugh. 
This  quicksilver  no  gnome  has  drunk  —  within 
The  walnut  bowl  it  lies,  veined  and  thin, 
[159] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

In  colour  like  the  wake  of  light  that  stains 
The  Tuscan  deep,  when  from  the  moist  moon  rains 
The  inmost  shower  of  its  white  fire  —  the  breeze 
Is  still  —  blue  heaven  smiles  over  the  pale  seas. 
And  in  this  bowl  of  quicksilver  —  for  I 
Yield  to  the  impulse  of  an  infancy 
Outlasting  manhood  —  I  have  made  to  float 
A  rude  idealism  of  a  paper  boat :  — 
A  hollow  screw  with  cogs  —  Henry  will  know 
The  thing  I  mean  and  laugh  at  me,  —  if  so, 
He  fears  not  I  should  do  more  mischief.  —  Next 
Lie  bills  and  calculations  much  perplext. 
With  steam-boats,  frigates,  and  machinery  quaint 
Traced  over  them  in  blue  and  yellow  paint. 
Then  comes  a  range  of  mathematical 
Instruments,  for  plans  nautical  and  statical ; 
A  heap  of  rosin,  a  queer  broken  glass 
With  ink  in  it;  — a  china  cup  that  was 
(What  it  will  never  be  again,  I  think,) 
A  thing  from  which  sweet  lips  were  wont  to  drink 
The  liquor  doctors  rail  at  —  and  which  I 
Will  quaff  in  spite  of  them  —  and  when  we  die 
We  '11  toss  up  who  died  first  of  drinking  tea. 
And  cry  out,  —  "  heads  or  tails  ?  "  where'er  we  be. 
Near  that  a  dusty  paint  box,  some  odd  hooks, 
A  half-burnt  match,  an  ivory  block,  three  books. 
Where  conic  sections,  spherics,  logarithms. 
To  great  Laplace,  from  Saunderson  and  Sims, 
Lie  heaped  in  their  harmonious  disarray 
Of  figures,  —  disentangle  them  who  may. 
[160] 


THE    YEARS    1820   AND   1821 

Baron  de  Tott's  Memoirs  beside  them  lie, 
And  some  odd  volumes  of  old  chemistry. 
Near  those  a  most  inexplicable  thing, 
With  lead  in  the  middle  —  I'm  conjecturing 
How  to  make  Henry  understand  ;  but  no  — 
I  '11  leave,  as  Spenser  says,  "  with  many  mo," 
This  secret  in  the  pregnant  womb  of  time. 
Too  vast  a  matter  for  so  weak  a  rhyme. 

And  here  like  some  weird  Archimage  sit  I, 
Plotting  dark  spells  and  devilish  enginery, 
The  self-impelling  steam-wheels  of  the  mind 
Which  pump  up  oaths  from  clergymen,  and  grind 
The  gentle  spirit  of  our  meek  Reviews 
Into  a  powdery  foam  of  salt  abuse. 
Ruffling  the  ocean  of  their  self-content ;  — 
I  sit  —  and  smile  or  sigh  as  is  my  bent. 
But  not  for  them  —  Libeccio  rushes  round 
With  an  inconstant  and  an  idle  sound, 
I  heed  him  more  than  them.     The  thunder-smoke 
Is  gathering  on  the  mountains,  like  a  cloak 
Folded  athwart  their  shoulders  broad  and  bare ; 
The  ripe  corn  under  the  undulating  air 
Undulates  like  an  ocean ;  —  and  the  vines 
Are  trembling  wide  in  all  their  trellised  lines  — 
The  murmur  of  the  awakening  sea  doth  fill 
The  empty  pauses  of  the  blast ;  —  the  hill 
Looks  hoary  through  the  white  electric  rain. 
And  from  the  glens  beyond,  in  sullen  strain, 
The  interrupted  thunder  howls ;  above 
11  [  161  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

One  chasm  of  heaven  smiles,  like  the  eye  of  Love 
On  the  unquiet  world  ;  —  while  such  things  are, 
How  could  one  worth  your  friendship  heed  the  war 
Of  worms  ?  the  shriek  of  the  work^s  carrion  jays, 
Their  censure,  or  their  wonder,  or  their  praise  ? 

You  are  not  here  !  the  quaint  witch  Memory  sees 
In  vacant  chairs,  your  absent  images. 
And  points  where  once  you  sat,  and  now  should  be 
But  are  not. — I  demand  if  ever  we 
Shall  meet  as  then  we  met ;  —  and  she  replies, 
Veiling  in  awe  her  second-sighted  eyes ; 
"I  know  the  past  alone  —  but  summon  home 
My  sister  Hope,  —  she  speaks  of  all  to  come/^ 
But  I,  an  old  diviner,  who  knew  well 
Every  false  verse  of  that  sweet  oracle, 
Turned  to  the  sad  enchantress  once  again. 
And  sought  a  respite  from  my  gentle  pain. 
In  citing  every  passage  o^er  and  o^er 
Of  our  communion  —  how  on  the  sea-shore 
We  watched  the  ocean  and  the  sky  together. 
Under  the  roof  of  blue  Italian  weather ; 
How  I  ran  home  through  last  yearns  thunder-storm. 
And  felt  the  transverse  lightning  linger  warm 
Upon  my  cheek  —  and  how  we  often  made 
Teasts  for  each  other,  where  good  will  outweighed 
The  frugal  luxury  of  our  country  cheer, 
As  well  it  might,  were  it  less  firm  and  clear 
Than  ours  must  ever  be ;  —  and  how  we  spun 
A  shroud  of  talk  to  hide  us  from  the  sun 
[  162  J 


THE   YEARS   1820   AND   1821 

Of  this  familiar  life,  which  seems  to  be 
But  is  not,  —  or  is  but  quaint  mockery 
Of  all  we  would  believe,  and  sadly  blame 
The  jarring  and  inexplicable  frame 
Of  this  wrong  world  :  —  and  then  anatomise 
The  purposes  and  thoughts  of  men  whose  eyes 
Were  closed  in  distant  years ;  —  or  widely  guess 
The  issue  of  the  earth's  great  business, 
When  we  shall  be  as  we  no  longer  are  — 
(Like  babbling  gossips  safe,  who  hear  the  war 
Of  winds,  and  sigh,  but  tremble  not)  ;  —  or  how 
You  listened  to  some  interrupted  flow 
Of  visionary  rhyme,  —  ill  joy  and  pain 
Struck  from  the  inmost  fountains  of  my  brain. 
With  little  skill  perhaps  ;  —  or  how  we  sought 
Those  deepest  wells  of  passion  or  of  thought 
Wrought  by  wise  poets  in  the  waste  of  years, 
Staining  their  sacred  waters  with  our  tears  ; 
Quenching  a  thirst  ever  to  be  renewed  ! 
Or  how  I,  wisest  lady  !  then  indued 
The  language  of  a  land  which  now  is  free. 
And  winged  with  thoughts  of  truth  and  majesty, 
Flits  round  the  tyrant^s  sceptre  like  a  cloud. 
And  bursts  the  peopled  prisons,  and  cries  aloud, 
"  My  name  is  Legion!" — that  majestic  tongue 
Which  Calderon  over  the  desert  flung 
Of  ages  and  of  nations ;  and  which  found 
An  echo  in  our  hearts,  and  with  the  sound 
Startled  oblivion.     Thou  wert  then  to  me 
As  is  a  nurse  —  when  inarticulately 
[163] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

A  child  would  talk  as  its  grown  parents  do. 

If  living  winds  the  rapid  clouds  pursue. 

If  hawks  chase  doves  through  the  ethereal  way. 

Huntsmen  the  innocent  deer,  and  beasts  their  prey, 

Why  should  not  we  rouse  \nth.  the  spirit^s  blast 

Out  of  the  forest  of  the  pathless  past 

These  recollected  pleasures  ?  ^ 

You  are  now 
In  London,  that  great  sea,  whose  ebb  and  flow 
At  once  is  deaf  and  loud,  and  on  the  shore 
Vomits  its  wrecks,  and  still  howls  on  for  more. 
Yet  in  its  depth  what  treasures  !     You  will  see 
That  which  was  Godwin,^  —  greater  none  than  he 
Though  fallen — and  fallen  on  evil  times  —  to  stand 
Among  the  spirits  of  our  age  and  land, 
Before  the  dread  tribunal  of  to  come 
The  foremost,  —  wliile  Rebuke  cowers  pale  and  dumb. 
You  will  see  Coleridge  ^  —  he  who  sits  obscure 
In  the  exceeding  lustre,  and  the  pure 
Intense  irradiation  of  a  mind. 
Which,  with  its  own  internal  lightning  blind. 
Flags  wearily  through  darkness  and  despair — 
A  cloud-encircled  meteor  of  the  air, 
A  hooded  eagle  among  blinking  owls. 

1  In  the  preceding  Summer,  at  \lx%.  Gisborne's  suggestion,  Shelley  be- 
gan the  study  of  Spanish,  and  they  joined  in  a  daily  reading  of  Calderon. 
Shelley,  at  that  time,  had  some  thought  of  translating  some  of  Calderon's 
plays  into  English. 

2  Godwin,  author  of  "Political  Justice"  and  father-in-law  of  Shelley. 
^  Shelley's  acquaintance  with  Coleridge  was  but  slight. 

[  164  j 


THE    YEARS   1820   AND   1821 

You  will  see  Hunt  ^  —  one  of  those  liappy  souls 
Which  are  the  salt  of  the  earthy  and  without  whom 
This  world  would  smell  like  what  it  is  —  a  tomb ; 
Who  is^  what  others  seem ;  his  room  no  doubt 
Is  still  adorned  by  many  a  cast  from  Shout, 
With  graceful  flowers  tastefully  placed  about ; 
And  coronals  of  bay  from  ribbons  hung, 
And  brighter  wreaths  in  neat  disorder  flung  ; 
The  gifts  of  the  most  learned  among  some  dozens 
Of  female  friends,  sisters-in-law,  and  cousins. 
And  there  is  he  with  his  eternal  puns. 
Which  beat  the  dullest  brain  for  smiles,  like  duns 
Thundering  for  money  at  a  poet's  door ; 
Alas  !  it  is  no  use  to  say,  "  I  'm  poor  !  " 
Or  oft  in  graver  mood,  when  he  will  look 
Things  wiser  than  were  ever  read  in  book. 
Except  in  Shakespeare^s  wisest  tenderness. 
-  You  will  see  Hogg,^  —  and  I  cannot  express 
His  virtues,  —  though  I  know  that  they  are  great, 
Because  he  locks,  then  barricades  the  gate 
Within  which  they  inhabit ;  —  of  his  wit 
And  wisdom,  you  '11  cry  out  when  you  are  bit. 
He  is  a  pearl  within  an  oyster  shell. 
One  of  the  richest  of  the  deep ;  —  and  there 
Is  English  Peacock  ^  with  his  mountain  fair 
Turned  into  a  Elamingo  ;  —  that  shy  bird 
That  gleams  i'  the  Indian  air.     Have  you  not  heard 

1  James  Leigh  Hunt,  the  most  intimate  of  Shelley's  friends. 

2  Thomas  Jefferson  Hogg,  a  schoolfellow  and  later  Shelley's  biographer. 

3  Thomas  Love  Peacock,  to  whom  most  of  the  Letters  from  Italy  are 
addressed. 

[165] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

When  a  man  marries,  dies,  or  turns  Hindoo, 
His  best  friends  hear  no  more  of  him  ?  —  but  you 
Will  see  him,  and  will  like  him  too,  I  hope. 
With  the  milk-white  Snowdonian  Antelope 
Matched  with  this  cameleopard  —  his  fine  wit 
Makes  such  a  wound,  the  knife  is  lost  in  it ; 
A  strain  too  learned  for  a  shallow  age, 
Too  wise  for  selfish  bigots ;  let  his  page 
Which  charms  the  chosen  spirits  of  the  time, 
Fold  itself  up  for  the  serener  clime 
Of  years  to  come,  and  find  its  recompense 
In  that  just  expectation.  —  Wit  and  sense. 
Virtue  and  human  knowledge ;  all  that  might 
Make  this  dull  world  a  business  of  delight. 
Are  all  combined  in  Horace  Smith.^  —  And  these. 
With  some  exceptions,  which  I  need  not  tease 
Your  patience  by  descanting  on,  —  are  all 
You  and  I  know  in  London. 

I  recall 
My  thoughts,  and  bid  you  look  upon  the  night. 
As  water  does  a  sponge,  so  the  moonlight 
Pills  the  void,  hollow,  universal  air  — 
What  see  you  ?  —  unpavilioned  heaven  is  fair 
Whether  tlie  moon,  into  her  chamber  gone. 
Leaves  midnight  to  the  golden  stars,  or  wan 
Climbs  with  diminished  beams  the  azure  steep ; 
Or  whether  clouds  sail  o'er  the  inverse  deep, 
Piloted  by  the  many-wandering  blast, 

1  One  of  the  authors  of  "  Rejected  Addresses." 

[  166] 


THE    YEARS   1820   AND   1821 

And  the  rare  stars  rush  through  them  dim  aud  fast :  — 

All  this  is  beautiful  in   every  laud.  — 

But  what  see  you  beside  ?  —  a  shabby  stand 

Of  hackney  coaches  —  a  brick  house  or  wall 

Fencing  some  lonely  court,  white  with  the  scrawl 

Of  our  unhappy  politics  ;  —  or  worse  — 

A  wretched  woman  reeling  by,  whose  curse 

Mixed  with  the  watchman^s,  partner  of  her  trade. 

You  must  accept  in  place  of  serenade  — 

Or  yellow-haired  Pollonia  murmuring 

To  Henry,  some  unutterable  thing. 

/  see  a  chaos  of  green  leaves  and  fruit 
Built  round  dark  caverns,  even  to  the  root 
Of  the  living  stems  that  feed  them,  in  whose  bowers 
There  sleep  in  their  dark  dew  the  folded  flowers ; 
Beyond,  the  surface  of  the  unsickled  corn 
Trembles  not  in  the  slumbering  air,  and  borne 
In  circles  quaint,  and  ever-changing  dance. 
Like  winged  stars  the  fire-flies  flash  and  glance, 
Pale  in  the  open  moonshine,  but  each  one 
Under  the  dark  trees  seems  a  little  sun, 
A  meteor  tamed,  a  fixed  star  gone  astray 
From  the  silver  regions  of  the  milky  way  ;  — 
Afar  the  contadino^s  song  is  heard. 
Rude,  but  made  sweet  by  distance  —  and  a  bird 
"Which  cannot  be  the  nightingale,^  and  yet 
I  know  none  else  that  sings  so  sweet  as  it 

1  Because  it  is  now  July,  and  nightingales  are  not  supposed  to  sing  later 
than  June  in  Italy,  save  when  the  weather  is  cool  and  their  haunts  shady. 

[  167] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

At  this  late  hour ;  —  and  then  all  is  still. 
Now  Italy  or  London,  which  you  wiU ! 

Next  Winter  you  must  pass  with  me  ;  I  ^11  have 
My  house  by  that  time  turned  into  a  grave 
Of  dead  despondence  and  low-thoughted  care, 
And  all  the  dreams  which  our  tormentors  are ; 
Oh !  that  Hunt,  Hogg,  Peacock,  and  Smith  were  there. 
With  every  thing  belonging  to  them  fair  !  — 
We  will  have  books,  Spanish,  Italian,  Greek ; 
And  ask  one  week  to  make  another  week 
xis  like  his  father,  as  I  ^m  unlike  mine. 
Which  is  not  his  fault,  as  you  may  divine. 
Though  we  eat  little  flesh  and  drink  no  wine. 
Yet  let  ^s  be  merry  :  we  ^U  have  tea  and  toast ; 
Custards  for  supper,  and  an  endless  host 
Of  syUabubs  and  jellies  and  mince-pies, 
And  other  such  lady-like  luxuries,  — 
Feasting  on  which  we  will  philosophise  ! 
And  we  ^11  have  fires  out  of  the  Grand  Duke^s  wood. 
To  thaw  the  six  weeks'  winter  in  our  blood. 
And  then  we  ^11  talk  ;  —  what  shall  we  talk  about  ? 
Oh  !  there  are  themes  enough  for  many  a  bout 
Of  thought-entangled  descant ;  —  as  to  nerves  — 
With  cones  and  parallelograms  and  curves 
IVe  sworn  to  strangle  them  if  once  they  dare 
To  bother  me  —  when  you  are  with  me  there. 
And  they  shall  never  more  sip  laudanum. 
Prom  Helicon  or  Himeros  ^ ;  —  well,  come, 

1  "ifitpos  ( river  Himera)  is,  with  a  shade  of  difference,  a  synonyme  of  Love. 

[168] 


THE   YEARS   1820   AND   1821 

And  in  despite  of  God  and  of  the  devil, 

We  ^11  make  our  friendly  philosophic  revel 

Outlast  the  leafless  time ;  till  buds  and  flowers 

"Warn  the  obscure  inevitable  hours, 

Sweet  meeting  by  sad  parting  to  renew  ;  — 

"  To-morrow  to  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new." 


THE  CLOUD 

I  BRING  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers, 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams ; 
I  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken 

The  sweet  buds  every  one, 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother^s  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail. 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under, 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain. 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below. 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast ; 
And  all  the  night  ^tis  my  pillow  white. 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skiey  bowers. 

Lightning  my  pilot  sits. 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  Thunder, 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits ; 
[  169  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  Genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea ; 
Over  the  riUs,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills. 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains, 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream, 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains  ; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smile. 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 

The  sanguine  Sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes. 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread. 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack. 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead, 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag, 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings, 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And  when  Sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit  sea  beneath. 

Its  ardours  of  rest  and  of  love. 
And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above. 
With  wings  folded  I  rest,  on  my  airy  nest. 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbed  maiden  with  white  fire  laden. 

Whom  mortals  call  the  Moon, 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor. 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn ; 
[  170  ] 


THE   YEARS   1820   AND   1821 

And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet. 

Which  only  the  angels  hear, 
May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin  roof. 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer ; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee. 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees. 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent. 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas. 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high, 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

I  bind  the  San's  throne  with  a  burning  zone. 

And  the  Moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl ; 
The  Volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  Stars  reel  and  swim, 

When  the  Whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape. 

Over  a  torrent  sea. 
Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof, 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch  through  which  I  march 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow. 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to  my  chair. 

Is  the  million-coloured  bow; 
The  Sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colours  wove. 

While  the  moist  Earth  was  laughing  below. 

I  am  the  daughter  of  Earth  and  Water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  Sky ; 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores ; 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
[171  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN  ITALY 

For  after  the  rain  when  with  never  a  stain^ 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare. 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams  with  their  convex  gleams, 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air, 
I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph, 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain. 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from  the  tomb, 

I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 


TO  A   SKYLAEK 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 

Bird  thou  never  wert. 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 
Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 

Like  a  cloud  of  fire ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest. 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun. 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightning, 
Thou  dost  float  and  run ; 
Like  an  embodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 
[  172  ] 


THE   YEARS   1820   AND   1821 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven. 

In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight, 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere. 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 
In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud. 
As,  when  night  is  bare. 
From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflowed. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not; 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see. 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought. 
Singing  hymns  unbidden. 
Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not : 
[  173  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

Like  a  high-boru  maiden 

In  a  palace-tower^ 
Soothing  her  love-laden 
Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower : 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew. 
Scattering  unbeholden 
Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from  the 
view : 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflowered. 
Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint   with   too    much  sweet   these   heavy-winged 
thieves : 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass. 
Rain-awakened  flowers. 

All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass  : 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine  : 

I  have  never  heard 
Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 


THE   YEARS   1820   AND   1821 

Chorus  Hymeneal, 

Or  triumphal  chaunt, 
Matched  with  thine,  would  be  all 
But  an  empty  vaunt  — 
A  tiling  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains  ? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  ? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind  ?  what  ignorance  of  pahi  ? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be : 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee  : 
Thou  lovest :  but  ne^er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

Waking  or  asleep. 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 

Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream  ? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not : 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those   that   tell  of   saddest 
thought. 

[  175  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear; 
If  we  were  things  born 
Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground  ! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 

Prom  my  lips  would  flow. 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now. 


ODE  TO  LIBEETY 

Yet,  Freedom,  yet  thy  banner  torn  but  flying 
Streams  like  a  thunder-storm  against  the  wind. 

Byeon. 

I 

A  GLORIOUS  people  vibrated  again 

The  lightning  of  the  nations  :  Liberty 
Erom  heart  to  heart,  from  tower  to  tower,  o'er  Spain, 

Scattering  contagious  fire  into  the  sky. 
Gleamed.     My  soul  spurned  the  chains  of  its  dismay, 
And,  in  the  rapid  plumes  of  song. 
Clothed  itself,  sublime  and  strong ; 

[  ™] 


THE   YEARS   1820  AND   1821 

As  a  young  eagle  soars  the  morning  clouds  among, 
Hovering  in  verse  o^er  its  accustomed  prey ; 
Till  from  its  station  in  the  heaven  of  fame 
The  Spirit's  whirlwind  rapt  it,  and  the  ray 
Of  the  remotest  sphere  of  living  flame 
Which  paves  the  void  was  from  behind  it  flung, 
As  foam  from  a  ship's  swiftness,  when  there  came 
A  voice  out  of  the  deep :  I  will  record  the  same. 

n 

"  The  Sun  and  the  serenest  Moon  sprang  forth : 

The  burning  stars  of  the  abyss  were  hurled 

Into  the  depths  of  heaven.     The  daedal  earth, 

That  island  in  the  ocean  of  the  world. 
Hung  in  its  cloud  of  all-sustaining  air  : 
But  this  divinest  universe 
Was  yet  a  chaos  and  a  curse. 
For  Thou  wert  not :   but,  power  from  worst  producing 
worse. 
The  spirit  of  the  beasts  was  kindled  there. 

And  of  the  birds,  and  of  the  watery  forms,  — 
And  there  was  war  among  them,  and  despair 
Within  them,  raging  without  truce  or  terms  : 
The  bosom  of  their  violated  nurse 

Groaned,  for  beasts  warred  on  beasts,  and  worms  on 

worms. 
And  men  on  men ;  each  heart  was  as  a  hell  of  storms. 


12  [  177  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

III 

'^  Maii^  the  imperial  shape,  then  multiplied 
His  generations  under  the  pavilion 
Of  the  Sun-'s  throne  :  palace  and  pyramid, 

Temple  and  prison,  to  many  a  swarming  million, 
Were,  as  to  mountain-wolves  their  ragged  caves. 
This  human  living  multitude 
Was  savage,  cunning,  blind,  and  rude, 
For  Thou  wert  not ;  but  o'er  the  populous  solitude. 
Like  one  fierce  cloud  over  a  waste  of  waves 

Hung  Tyranny ;  beneath,  sate  deified 
The  sister-pest,  congregator  of  slaves 
Into  the  shadow  of  her  pinions  wide. 
Anarchs  and  priests  who  feed  on  gold  and  blood, 
Till  with  the  stain  their  inmost  souls  are  dyed. 
Drove  the  astonished  herds  of  men  from  every  side. 

IV 

"  The  nodding  promontories,  and  blue  isles, 

And  cloud-like  mountains,  and  dividuous  waves 
Of  Greece,  basked  glorious  in  the  open  smiles 

Of  favouring  heaven  :  from  their  enchanted  caves 
Prophetic  echoes  flung  dim  melody. 
On  the  unapprehensive  wild 
The  vine,  the  corn,  the  olive  mild. 
Grew,  savage  yet,  to  human  use  unreconciled ; 
And,  like  unfolded  flowers,  beneath  the  sea, 

Like  the  man's  thought  dark  in  the  infant's  brain. 
Like  aught  that  is  Avhich  wraps  what  is  to  be, 
[  178  ] 


THE   YEARS   1820   AND    1821 

Art's  deathless  dreams  lay  veiled  by  many  a  vein 
Of  Parian  stone ;  and,  yet  a  speechless  child. 
Verse  murmured,  and  Philosophy  did  strain 
Her  lidless  eyes  for  Thee  ;  when  o'er  the  ^gean  main 

V 

"  Athens  arose  :  a  city  such  as  vision 

Builds  from  the  purple  crags  and  silver  towers 
Of  battlemented  cloud,  as  in  derision 

Of  kingliest  masonry  :  the  ocean-floors 
Pave  it ;  the  evening  sky  pavilions  it ; 
Its  portals  are  inhabited 
By  thunder-zoned  winds,  each  head 
Within  its  cloudy  wings  with  sunfire  garlanded, 
A  divine  work  !     Athens  diviner  yet 

Gleamed  with  its  crest  of  columns,  on  the  will 
Of  man,  as  on  a  mount  of  diamond,  set ; 
Por  Thou  wert,  and  thine  all-creative  skill 
Peopled,  with  forms  that  mock  the  eternal  dead 
III  marble  immortality,  that  hill 
"Which  was  thine  earliest  throne  and  latest  oracle. 

VI 

"  Within  the  surface  of  Time's  fleeting  river 
Its  wrinkled  image  lies,  as  then  it  lay 
Immovably  unquiet,  and  for  ever 

It  trembles,  but  it  cannot  pass  away  ! 
The  voices  of  thy  bards  and  sages  thunder 
With  an  earth-awakening  blast 
Through  the  caverns  of  the  past ; 
[  179  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN  ITALY 

Religion  veils  her  eyes ;   Oppression  shrinks  agliast : 
A  winged  sound  of  joy,  and  love,  and  wonder. 
Which  soars  where  Expectation  never  flew, 
Eending  the  veil  of  space  and  time  asunder ! 

One  ocean  feeds  the  clouds,  and  streams,  and  dew; 
One  sun  illumines  heaven ;   one  spirit  vast 
With  life  and  love  makes  chaos  ever  new, 
As  Athens  doth  the  world  with  thy  delight  renew. 

VII 
"  Then  Eome  was,  and  from  thy  deep  bosom  fairest. 
Like  a  wolf-cub  from  a  Cadmsean  Msenad, 
She  drew  the  milk  of  greatness,  though  thy  dearest 

Erom  that  Elysian  food  was  yet  unweaned ; 
And  many  a  deed  of  terrible  uprightness 
By  thy  sweet  love  was  sanctified ; 
And  in  thy  smile,  and  by  thy  side. 
Saintly  Camillus  lived,  and  firm  Attilius  died. 

But  when  tears  stained  thy  robe  of  vestal  whiteness. 

And  gold  profaned  thy  capitolian  throne. 
Thou  didst  desert,  with  spirit- winged  lightness. 
The  senate  of  the  tyrants  :  they  sunk  prone 
Slaves  of  one  tyrant :  Palatinus  sighed 
Eaint  echoes  of  Ionian  song ;  that  tone 
Thou  didst  delay  to  hear,  lamenting  to  disown. 

VIII 
"  From  what  Hyrcanian  glen  or  frozen  hill. 
Or  piny  promontory  of  the  Arctic  main. 
Or  utmost  islet  inaccessible. 

Didst  thou  lament  the  ruin  of  thy  reign, 
[180] 


2   ''- 

ft"  s 


"    <&    2 


t_.     '  :>. 


"^ 


THE   YEARS   1820   AND   1821 

Teaching  the  woods  and  waves,  and  desert  rocks. 
And  every  Naiad's  ice-cold  urn. 
To  talk  in  echoes  sad  and  stern, 
Of  that  sublimest  lore  which  man  had  dared  unlearn  ? 
For  neither  didst  thou  watch  the  wizard  flocks 

Of  the  Scald's  dreams,  nor  haunt  the  Druid's  sleep. 
What  if  the  tears  rained  through  thy  shattered  locks 
Were   quickly   dried  ?    for   thou   didst  groan,   not 
weep 
When  from  its  sea  of  death  to  kill  and  burn. 
The  Galilean  serpent  forth  did  creep, 
And  made  thy  world  an  undistinguishable  heap. 

IX 

"  A  thousand  years  the  Earth  cried,  *  Where  art  thou  ? ' 
And  then  the  shadow  of  thy  coming  fell 
On  Saxon  Alfred's  olive-cinctured  brow: 

And  many  a  warrior-peopled  citadel. 
Like  rocks  which  fire  lifts  out  of  the  flat  deep, 
Arose  in  sacred  Italy, 
Frowning  o'er  the  tempestuous  sea 
Of  kings,   and   priests,   and   slaves,  m   tower-crowned 
majesty ; 
That  multitudinous  anarchy  did  sweep 

And  burst  around  their  walls,  like  idle  foam. 
Whilst  from  the  human  spirit's  deepest  deep 
Strange  melody  with  love  and  awe  struck  dumb 
Dissonant  arms ;  and  Art,  which  cannot  die. 
With  divine  wand  traced  on  our  earthly  home 
Fit  imagery  to  pave  heaven's  everlasting  dome. 
[181  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN   ITALY 

X 

"  Thou  huntress  swifter  than  the  Moon  !  thou  terror 
Of  tlie  world's  wolves  !  thou  bearer  of  the  quiver^ 
Whose  sunlike  shafts  pierce  tempest-winged  Error, 

As  light  may  pierce  the  clouds  when  they  dissever 
In  the  calm  regions  of  the  orient  day  ! 

Luther  caught  thy  wakening  glance  : 
Like  lightning,  from  his  leaden  lance 
Reflected,  it  dissolved  the  visions  of  the  trance 
In  which,  as  in  a  tomb,  the  nations  lay ; 

And  Eiigland^s  prophets  hailed  thee  as  their  queen 
In  songs  whose  music  cannot  pass  away. 
Though  it  must  flow  for  ever.     Not  unseen, 
Before  the  spirit-sighted  countenance 

Of  Milton,  didst  thou  pass  from  the  sad  scene 
Beyond  whose  night  he  saw,  with  a  dejected  mien. 

XI 

"  The  eager  Hours  and  unreluctant  Years 
As  on  a  dawn-illumined  mountain  stood. 
Trampling  to  silence  their  loud  hopes  and  fears. 

Darkening  each  other  with  their  multitude, 
And  cried  aloud.  Liberty  !    Indignation 
Answered  Pity  from  her  cave ; 
Death  grew  pale  within  the  grave. 
And  Desolation  howled  to  the  destroyer.  Save  ! 
When,  like  heaven's  sun  girt  by  the  exhalation 

Of  its  own  glorious  light,  thou  didst  arise. 
Chasing  thy  foes  from  nation  unto  nation 
[  182  ] 


THE   YEARS   1820   AND   1821 

Like  shadows  :  as  if  day  had  cloven  the  skies 
At  dreaming  midnight  o'er  the  western  wave. 
Men  started,  staggering  with  a  glad  surprise, 
Under  the  lightnings  of  thine  unfamiliar  eyes. 

XII 

■  Thou  heaven  of  earth !  what  spells  could  pall  thee  then, 

In  ominous  eclipse  ?  a  thousand  years 
Bred  from  the  slime  of  deep  oppression's  den, 

Dyed  all  thy  liquid  light  with  blood  and  tears, 
Till  thy  sweet  stars  could  weep  the  stain  away ; 
How  like  Bacchanals  of  blood 
Eound  France,  the  ghastly  vintage,  stood 
Destruction's  sceptred  slaves,  and  Folly's  mitred  brood ! 
When  one,  like  them,  but  mighter  far  than  they. 

The  Anarch  of  thine  own  bewildered  powers 
Eose :  armies  mingled  in  obscure  array, 

Like  clouds  with  clouds,  darkening  the  sacred  bowers 
Of  serene  heaven.     He,  by  the  past  pursued, 
Eests  mth  those  dead  but  unforgotten  hours 
Whose  ghosts  scare  victor  kings  in  their  ancestral 
towers. 

XIII 

England  yet  sleeps  :  was  she  not  called  of  old  ? 

Spain  calls  her  now,  as  with  its  thrilling  thunder 
Vesuvius  wakens  ^Etna,  and  the  cold 

Suow-crags  by  its  reply  are  cloven  in  sunder : 
O'er  the  lit  waves  every  ^olian  isle 
From  Pithecusa  to  Pelorus 
Howls,  and  leaps,  and  glares  in  chorus  : 
[  183] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

They  cry, '  Be  dim,  ye  lamps  of  heaven  suspended  o^er  us ! ' 
Her  chains  are  threads  of  gold,  she  need  but  smile, 

And  they  dissolve ;  but  Spain's  vrere  links  of  steel, 
Till  bit  to  dust  by  virtue's  keenest  file. 
Twins  of  a  single  destiny  !  appeal 
To  the  eternal  years  enthroned  before  us. 
In  the  dim  West ;  impress  us  from  a  seal. 
All  ye  have  thought  and  done !    Time  cannot  dare  conceal. 

XIV 
"  Tomb  of  Arminius  !  render  up  thy  dead, 

Till,  like  a  standard  from  a  watch-tower's  staff. 
His  soul  may  stream  over  the  tyrant's  head ! 

Thy  victory  shall  be  his  epitaph  ! 
Wild  Bacchanal  of  truth's  mysterious  wine. 
King-deluded  Germany, 
His  dead  spirit  lives  in  thee ! 
Why  do  "we  fear  or  hope?  thou  art  already  free  ! 
And  thou,  lost  Paradise  of  this  divine 

And  glorious  world  !  thou  flowery  wilderness  ! 
Thou  island  of  eternity  !  thou  shrine 

Where  desolation  clothed  with  loveliness. 
Worships  the  thing  thou  wert !     0  Italy, 
Gather  thy  blood  into  thy  heart ;  repress 
The  beasts  who  make  their  dens  thy  sacred  palaces. 

XV 

"  Oh,  that  the  free  would  stamp  the  impious  name 

Of  King  into  the  dust !  or  write  it  there. 
So  that  this  blot  upon  the  page  of  fame 

Were  as  a  serpent's  path,  which  the  light  air 
[  181  ] 


THE   YEARS   1820  AND   1821 

Erases,  and  the  flat  sands  close  behind  I 
Ye  the  oracle  have  heard  : 
Lift  the  victory-flashing  sword, 
And  cut  the  snaky  knots  of  this  foul  gordian  word, 
Which  weak  itself  as  stubble,  yet  can  bind 

Into  a  mass,  irrefragably  firm. 
The  axes  and  the  rods  which  awe  mankind ; 
The  sound  has  poison  in  it,  't  is  the  sperm 
Of  what  makes  life  foul,  cankerous,  and  abhorred ; 
Disdain  not  thou,  at  thine  appointed  term. 
To  set  thine  armed  heel  on  this  reluctant  worm. 

XVI 

"  Oh,  that  the  wise  from  their  bright  minds  would  kiudle 

Such  lamps  within  the  dome  of  this  dim  world. 
That  the  pale  name  of  Priest  might  shrink  and  dwindle 

Into  the  hell  from  which  it  first  was  hurled, 
A  scoff  of  impious  pride  from  fiends  impure ; 
Till  human  thoughts  might  kneel  alone 
Each  before  the  judgment-throne 
Of  its  own  aweless  soul,  or  of  the  Power  unknown  ! 
Oh,  that  the  words  which  make  the  thoughts  obscure 

Prom  which  they  spring,  as  clouds  of  glimmering  dew 
From  a  wdiite  lake  blot  heaven's  blue  jiortraiture. 
Were  stript  of  their  thin  masks  and  various  due 
And  frowns  and  smiles  and  splendours  not  their  own. 
Till  in  the  nakedness  of  false  and  true 
They  stand  before  their  Lord,  each  to  receive  its  due ! 

[  185  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN  ITALY 

XVII 
"  He  who  taught  man  to  vanquish  whatsoever 

Can  be  between  the  cradle  and  the  grave 
Crowned  him  the  King  of  Life.     Oh,  vain  endeavour  ! 

If  on  his  own  high  will,  a  willing  slave. 
He  has  enthroned  the  oppression  and  the  oppressor. 
What  if  earth  can  clothe  and  feed 
Amplest  millions  at  their  need. 
And  power  in  thought  be  as  the  tree  within  the  seed  ? 
Or  what  if  Art,  an  ardent  intercessor, 

Driving  on  fiery  wings  to  Nature's  throne. 
Checks  the  great  mother  stooping  to  caress  her, 
And  cries  :  '  Give  me,  thy  child,  dominion 
Over  all  height  and  depth '  ?  if  Life  can  breed 

New  wants,  and  Wealth,  from  those  who  toil  and  groan 
Rend,  of  thy  gifts  and  hers,  a  thousand-fold  for  one  ? 

XVIII 

''  Come  Thou  !  but  lead  out  of  the  inmost  cave 

Of  man's  deep  spirit,  as  the  morning-star 
Beckons  the  Sun  from  the  Loan  wave. 

Wisdom.     I  hear  the  pennons  of  her  car 
Self-moving,  like  cloud  charioted  by  flame ; 
Comes  she  not,  and  come  ye  not, 
Eulers  of  eternal  thought. 
To  judge,  with  solemn  truth,  life's  ill-apportioned  lot  ? 
Blind  Love,  and  equal  Justice,  and  the  Fame 

Of  what  has  been,  the  Hope  of  what  will  be? 
O  Liberty  !  if  such  could  be  thy  name 
[  186] 


THE   YEARS   1820  AND    1821 

Wert  thou  disjoined  from  these,  or  they  from  thee : 
If  thine  or  theirs  were  treasures  to  be  bought 
By  blood  or  tears,  have  not  the  wise  and  free 
Wept  tears,   and    blood    like   tears  ? "      The   solemn 
harmony 

XIX 

Paused,  and  the  Spirit  of  that  mighty  singing 

To  its  abyss  was  suddenly  withdrawn; 
Then,  as  a  wild  swan,  when  sublimely  winging 

Its  path  athwart  the  thunder-smoke  of  dawn. 
Sinks  headlong  through  the  aerial  golden  light 
On  the  heavy  sounding  plain, 
When  the  bolt  has  pierced  its  brain ; 
As  Summer  clouds  dissolve,  unburthened  of  their  rain  ; 
As  a  far  taper  fades  with  fading  night, 

As  a  brief  insect  dies  with  dying  day, 
My  song,  its  pinions  disarrayed  of  might, 
Drooped ;  o^er  it  closed  the  echoes  far  away 
Of  the  great  voice  which  did  its  flight  sustain. 
As  waves  which  lately  paved  his  watery  way 
Hiss  round  a  drowner's  head  in  their  tempestuous  play. 

Naples,  Jan.  26,  1819. ^ 

Since  you  last  heard  from  me,  we   have  been  to  see 

Pompeii,  and  are  waiting  now  for  the   return  of  Spring 

weather,  to  visit,  first,   Psestum,   and   then  the    islands; 

1  This  letter  is  inserted  here,  out  of  its  chronological  order,  as  fur- 
nishing comment  and  explanation  of  allusions  in  the  Ode  to  Naples 
following.     The  poem  was  written  more  than  a  year  later. 

[  187  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

after  which  we  shall  return  to  Eome.  I  was  astonished 
at  the  remains  of  this  city ;  I  had  no  conception  of  any- 
thing so  perfect  yet  remaining.  My  idea  of  the  mode  of 
its  destruction  was  this  :  —  First,  an  earthquake  shattered 
it,  and  unroofed  almost  all  its  temples,  and  split  its 
columns;  then  a  rain  of  light,  small  pumice  stones  fell; 
then  torrents  of  boiling  water,  mixed  with  ashes,  filled  up 
all  its  crevices.  A  wide,  flat  hill,  from  which  the  city 
was  excavated,  is  now  covered  by  thick  woods,  and  you 
see  the  tombs  and  the  theatres,  the  temples  and  the  liouses, 
surrounded  by  the  uninhabited  wilderness.  We  entered 
the  town  from  the  side  towards  the  sea,  and  first  saw  two 
theatres ;  one  more  magnificent  than  the  other,  strewn 
with  the  ruins  of  the  white  marble  which  formed  their 
seats  and  cornices,  wrought  with  deep,  bold  sculpture. 
In  the  front,  between  the  stage  and  the  seats,  is  the  cir- 
cular space,  occasionally  occupied  by  the  chorus.  The 
stage  is  very  narrow,  but  long,  and  divided  from  this 
space  by  a  narrow  enclosure  parallel  to  it,  I  suppose  for 
the  orchestra.  On  each  side  are  the  consuls^  boxes,  and 
below,  in  the  theatre  at  Herculaneum,  were  found  two 
equestrian  statues  of  admirable  workmanship,  occupying 
the  same  place  as  the  great  bronze  lamps  did  at  Drury 
Lane.  The  smallest  of  the  theatres  is  said  to  have  been 
comic,  though  I  should  doubt.  From  both  you  see,  as 
you  sit  on  the  seats,  a  prospect  of  the  most  wonderful 
beauty. 

You    then  pass  through  the    ancient  streets;   they  are 
very  narrow,   and  the    houses   rather  small,  but  all  con- 
structed on  an  admirable  plan,  especially  for  this  climate. 
[188] 


THE  YEARS   1820   AND   1821 

The  rooms  are  built  round  a  court,  or  sometimes  two, 
accordiug  to  the  extent  of  the  house.  In  the  midst  is 
a  fountain,  sometimes  surrounded  with  a  portico,  sup- 
ported on  fluted  columns  of  white  stucco;  the  floor  is 
paved  with  mosaic,  sometimes  wrought  in  imitation  of 
vine  leaves,  sometimes  in  quaint  figures,  and  more  or 
less  beautiful,  according  to  the  rank  of  the  inhabitant. 
There  were  paintings  on  all,  but  most  of  them  have  been 
removed  to  decorate  the  royal  museums.  Little  winged 
figures,  and  small  ornaments  of  exquisite  elegance,  yet 
remain.  There  is  an  ideal  life  in  the  forms  of  these 
paintings  of  an  incomparable  loveliness,  though  most  are 
evidently  the  work  of  very  inferior  artists.  It  seems  as 
if,  from  the  atmosphere  of  mental  beauty  which  sur- 
rounded them,  every  human  being  caught  a  splendour 
not  his  own.  In  one  house  you  see  how  the  bed-rooms 
were  managed ;  —  a  small  sofa  was  built  up,  where  the 
cushions  were  placed ;  two  pictures,  one  representing 
Diana  and  Endymion,  the  other  Venus  and  Mars,  decorate 
the  chamber ;  and  a  little  niche,  which  contains  the  statue 
of  a  domestic  god.  The  floor  is  composed  of  a  rich 
mosaic  of  the  rarest  marbles,  agate,  jasper,  and  porphyry ; 
it  looks  to  the  marble  fountain  and  the  snow-white 
columns,  whose  entablatures  strew  the  floor  of  the  portico 
they  supported.  The  houses  have  only  one  story,  and  the 
apartments,  though  not  large,  are  very  lofty.  A  great 
advantage  results  from  this,  wholly  unknown  in  our 
cities.  The  public  buildings,  whose  ruins  are  now  forests 
as  it  were  of  white  fluted  columns,  and  which  then  sup- 
ported entablatures,  loaded  with  sculptures,  were  seen  on 
[189] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN  ITALY 

all  sides  over  the  roofs  of  the  houses.  This  was  the  ex- 
cellence of  the  ancients.  Their  private  expenses  were 
comparatively  moderate ;  the  dwelling  of  one  of  the  chief 
senators  of  Pompeii  is  elegant  indeed,  and  adorned  with 
most  beautiful  specimens  of  art,  but  small.  But  their 
public  buildings  are  everywhere  marked  by  the  bold  and 
grand  designs  of  an  unsparing  magnificence.  In  the  little 
town  of  Pompeii  (it  contained  about  twenty  thousand 
inhabitants),  it  is  wonderful  to  see  the  number  and  the 
grandeur  of  their  public  buildings.  Another  advantage, 
too,  is  that,  in  the  present  case,  the  glorious  scenery  around 
is  not  shut  out,  and  that,  unlike  the  inhabitants  of  the 
Cimmerian  ravines  of  modern  cities,  the  ancient  Pom- 
peians  could  contemplate  the  clouds  and  the  lamps  of 
heaven;  could  see  the  moon  rise  high  behind  Vesuvius, 
and  the  sun  set  in  the  sea,  tremulous  with  an  atmosphere 
of  golden  vapour,  between  Inarime  and  Misenum. 

We  next  saw  the  temples.  Of  the  temple  of  ^scula- 
pius  little  remains  but  an  altar  of  black  stone,  adorned 
with  a  cornice  imitating  the  scales  of  a  serpent.  His 
statue  in  terra-cotta,  was  found  in  the  cell.  The  temple 
of  Isis  is  more  perfect.  It  is  surrounded  by  a  portico 
of  fluted  columns,  and  in  the  area  around  it  are  two 
altars,  and  many  ceppi  for  statues;  and  a  little  chapel 
of  white  stucco,  as  hard  as  stone,  of  the  most  exquisite 
proportion;  its  panels  are  adorned  with  figures  in  bas- 
relief,  slightly  indicated,  but  of  a  workmanship  the  most 
delicate  and  perfect  that  can  be  conceived.  They  are 
Egyptian  subjects,  executed  by  a  Greek  artist,  who  has 
harmonised  all  the  unnatural  extravagances  of  the  original 
[  190  ] 


THE   YEARS   1820   AND   1821 

couceptioQ  into  the  supernatural  loveliness  of  his  country's 
genius.  They  scarcely  touch  the  ground  with  their  feet, 
and  their  wind-uplifted  robes  seem  in  the  place  of  wings. 
The  temple  in  the  midst,  raised  on  a  high  platform,  and 
approached  by  steps,  was  decorated  with  exquisite  paint- 
ings, some  of  which  we  saw  in  the  museum  at  Portici. 
It  is  small,  of  the  same  materials  as  the  chapel,  with  a 
pavement  of  mosaic,  and  fluted  Ionic  columns  of  white 
stucco,  so  Avhite  that  it  dazzles  you  to  look  at  it. 

Thence  through  other  porticos  and  labyrinths  of  walls 
and  columns  (for  I  cannot  hope  to  detail  everything  to 
you),  we  came  to  the  Forum.  This  is  a  large  square, 
surrounded  by  lofty  porticos  of  fluted  columns,  some 
broken,  some  entire,  their  entablatures  strewed  under 
them.  The  temple  of  Jupiter,  of  Venus,  and  another 
temple,  the  Tribunal,  and  the  Hall  of  Public  Justice, 
with  their  forests  of  lofty  columns,  surround  the  Forum. 
Two  pedestals  or  altars  of  an  enormous  size  (for,  whether 
they  supported  equestrian  statues,  or  were  the  altars  of 
the  temple  of  Venus,  before  which  they  stand,  the  guide 
could  not  tell)  occupy  the  lower  end  of  the  Forum.  At 
the  upper  end,  supported  on  an  elevated  platform,  stands 
the  temple  of  Jupiter.  Under  the  coloimade  of  its  portico 
we  sat,  and  pulled  out  our  oranges,  and  figs,  and  bread, 
and  medlars  (sorry  fare,  you  will  say),  and  rested  to  eat. 
Here  was  a  magnificent  spectacle.  Above  and  between 
the  multitudinous  shafts  of  the  sunshining  columns  was 
seen  the  sea,  reflecting  the  purple  heaven  of  noon  above  it, 
and  supporting,  as  it  were,  on  its  line  the  dark  lofty 
mountains  of  Sorrento,  of  a  blue  inexpressibly  deep,  and 
[  191  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

tinged  towards  their  summits  with  streaks  of  new-fallen 
snow.  Between  was  one  small  green  island.  To  the  right 
was  Caprese,  Inarime,  Prochyta,  and  Misenum.  Behind 
was  the  single  summit  of  Vesuvius,  rolling  forth  volumes 
of  thick  white  smoke,  whose  foam-like  column  was  some- 
times darted  into  the  clear  dark  sky,  and  fell  in  little 
streaks  along  the  wind.  Between  Vesuvius  and  the  nearer 
mountains,  as  through  a  chasm,  was  seen  the  main  line  of 
the  loftiest  Apennines,  to  the  east.  The  day  was  radiant 
and  warm.  Every  now  and  then  we  heard  the  subter- 
ranean thunder  of  Vesuvius ;  its  distant  deep  peals  seemed 
to  shake  the  very  air  and  light  of  day,  which  interpene- 
trated our  frames,  with  the  sullen  and  tremendous  sound. 
This  scene  was  what  the  Greeks  beheld  (Pompeii,  you 
know,  was  a  Greek  city).  They  lived  in  harmony  with 
nature ;  and  the  interstices  of  their  incomparable  columns 
were  portals,  as  it  were,  to  admit  the  spirit  of  beauty 
which  animates  this  glorious  universe  to  visit  those  whom 
it  inspired.  If  such  was  Pompeii,  what  was  Athens  ? 
What  scene  was  exhibited  from  the  Acropolis,  the  Par- 
thenon, and  the  temples  of  Hercules,  and  Theseus,  and 
the  Winds  ?  The  islands  and  the  ^Egean  sea,  the  moun- 
tains of  Argolis,  and  the  peaks  of  Pindus  and  Olympus, 
and  the  darkness  of  the  Boeotian  forests  interspersed  ? 

Prom  the  Forum  we  went  to  another  public  place;  a 
triangular  portico,  half  inclosing  the  ruins  of  an  enormous 
temple.  It  is  built  on  the  edge  of  the  hill  overlooking 
the  sea.  A  That  black  point  is  the  temple.  In  the  apex 
of  the  triangle  stands  an  altar  and  a  fountain,  and  before 
the  altar  once  stood  the  statue  of  the  builder  of  the  por- 
[  192  ] 


> 


THE   YEARS   1820   AND   1821 

tico.  Returning  hence,  and  following  the  consular  road, 
we  came  to  the  eastern  gate  of  the  city.  The  walls  are  of 
enormous  strength,  and  inclose  a  space  of  three  miles. 
On  each  side  of  the  road  beyond  the  gate  are  built  the 
tombs.  How  unlike  ours !  They  seem  not  so  much 
hiding-places  for  that  which  must  decay,  as  voluptuous 
chambers  for  immortal  spirits.  They  are  of  marble,  radi- 
antly white  j  and  two,  especially  beautiful,  are  loaded 
with  exquisite  bas-reliefs.  On  the  stucco-wall  that  in- 
closes them  are  little  emblematic  figures  of  a  relief  exceed- 
ingly low,  of  dead  and  dying  animals,  and  little  winged 
genii,  and  female  forms  bending  in  groups  in  some  funeral 
office.  The  higher  reliefs  represent,  one  a  nautical  sub- 
ject, and  the  other  a  Bacchanalian  one.  Within  the  cell 
stand  the  cinerary  urns,  sometimes  one,  sometimes  more. 
It  is  said  that  paintings  were  found  within;  which  are 
now,  as  has  been  everything  moveable  in  Pompeii,  re- 
moved, and  scattered  about  in  royal  museums.  These 
tombs  were  the  most  impressive  things  of  all.  The  wild 
woods  surround  them  on  either  side ;  and  along  the  broad 
stones  of  the  paved  road  which  divides  them,  you  hear  the 
late  leaves  of  Autumn  shiver  and  rustle  in  the  stream  of 
the  inconstant  wind,  as  it  were,  like  the  step  of  ghosts. 
The  radiance  and  magnificence  of  these  dwelhngs  of  the 
dead,  the  white  freshness  of  the  scarcely  finished  marble, 
the  impassioned  or  imaginative  life  of  the  figures  which 
adorn  them,  contrast  strangely  with  the  simplicity  of  the 
houses  of  those  who  were  living  when  Vesuvius  over- 
whelmed them. 

I  have  forgotten  the  amphitheatre,  which  is  of  great 
13  [  193  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN   ITALY 

magnitude;  though  much  inferior  to  the  Coliseum,  I 
now  understand  why  the  Greeks  were  such  great  poets; 
and,  above  all,  I  can  account,  it  seems  to  me,  for  the 
harmony,  the  unity,  the  perfection,  the  uniform  excel- 
lence, of  all  their  works  of  art.  They  lived  in  a  perpetual 
commerce  with  external  nature,  and  nourished  themselves 
upon  the  spirit  of  its  forms.  Their  theatres  were  all  open 
to  the  mountains  and  the  sky.  Their  columns,  the  ideal 
types  of  a  sacred  forest,  with  its  roof  of  interwoven  tracery, 
admitted  the  light  and  wind ;  the  odour  and  the  freshness 
of  the  country  penetrated  the  cities.  Their  temples  were 
mostly  upaithric ;  and  the  flying  clouds,  the  stars,  or  the 
deep  sky,  was  seen  above.  O,  but  for  that  series  of 
wretched  wars  which  terminated  in  the  Eoman  conquest  of 
the  world ;  but  for  the  Christian  religion,  which  put  the 
finishing  stroke  on  the  ancient  system;  but  for  those 
changes  that  conducted  Athens  to  its  ruin, —  to  what  an 
eminence  might  not  humanity  have  arrived ! 

In  a  short  time  I  hope  to  tell  you  something  of  the 
museum  of  this  city. 

You  see  how  ill  I  follow  the  maxim  of  Horace,  at  least 
in  its  literal  sense  :  "  nil  admirari  "  —  which  I  should  say, 
"  prope  res  est  una "  —  to  prevent  there  ever  being  any- 
thing admirable  in  the  world.  Fortunately  Plato  is  of  my 
opinion ;  and  I  had  rather  err  with  Plato  than  be  right 
with  Horace. 


[  194  ] 


THE  YEARS   1820  AND   1821 
ODE  TO  NAPLES! 

EPODE    I  a 

I  STOOD  within  the  city  disinterred  ^ ; 

And  heard  the  autumnal  leaves  like  light  footfalls 
Of  spirits  passing  through  the  streets ;  and  heard 

The  Mountain's  slumberous  voice  at  intervals 
Thrill  through  those  roofless  halls ; 
The  oracular  thunder  penetrating  shook 

The  listening  soul  in  my  suspended  blood ; 
I  felt  that  Earth  out  of  her  deep  heart  spoke  — 

I  felt,  but  heard  not :  —  through  white  columns  glowed 
The  isle-sustaining  Ocean-flood, 
A  plane  of  light  between  two  Heavens  of  azure : 

Around  me  gleamed  many  a  bright  sepulchre 
Of  whose  pure  beauty.  Time,  as  if  his  pleasure 
Were  to  spare  Death,  had  never  made  erasure  | 

But  every  living  lineament  was  clear 

As  in  the  sculptor's  thought ;  and  there 
The  wreaths  of  stony  myrtle,  ivy,  and  pine. 

Like  Winter  leaves  o'ergrown  by  moulded  snow. 

Seemed  only  not  to  move  and  grow 
Because  the  crystal  silence  of  the  air 

"Weighed  on  their  life ;  even  as  the  Power  divine 

"Which  then  lulled  all  things,  brooded  upon  mine. 

1  The  Author  has  connected  many  recollections  of  his  visit  to  Pompeii 
and  Baise  with  the  enthusiasm  excited  by  the  intelligence  of  the  proclama- 
tion of  a  Constitutional  Government  at  Naples.  This  has  given  a  tinge  of 
picturesque  and  descriptive  imagery  to  tte  introductory  Epodes  which  de- 
picture these  scenes,  and  some  of  the  majestic  feelings  peimanently  connected 
with  the  scene  of  this  animating  event. —  Shelley's  Note. 

^  Pompeii. 

[  195  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN  ITALY 

EPODE    II  a 

Then  gentle  winds  arose 
With  many  a  mingled  close 
Of  wild  ^Eoliau  sound  and  mountain-odour  keen ; 
And  where  the  Baian  ocean 
Welters  with  airlike  motion. 
Within,  above,  around  its  bowers  of  starry  green, 
Moving  the  sea-flowers  in  those  purple  caves 
Even  as  the  ever  stormless  atmosphere 
Floats  o'er  the  Elysian  realm, 
It  bore  me,  like  an  Angel,  o'er  the  waves 
Of  sunlight,  whose  swift  pinnace  of  dewy  air 
No  storm  can  overwhelm. 
I  sailed,  where  ever  flows 
Under  the  calm  Serene 
A  spirit  of  deep  emotion 
From  the  unknown  graves    . 
Of  the  dead  kings  of  Melody.^ 
Shadowy  Aornus  darkened  o'er  the  helm 
The  horizontal  ether;  heaven  stript  bare 
Its  depths  over  Elysium,  where  the  prow 
Made  the  invisible  water  white  as  snow ; 
From  that  Typhsean  mount,  Inarime  ^ 

There  streamed  a  sunlight  vapour,  like  the  standard 
Of  some  ethereal  host ; 
Whilst  from  all  the  coast. 
Louder  and  louder,  gathering  round,  there  wandered 

^  Homer  and  Virgil. 
2  The  island  of  Ischia. 

[  196  ] 


<1 


*2 


g'^^; 


THE   YEARS   1820  AND   1821 

Over  the  oracular  woods  and  divine  sea 

Prophesyings  which  grew  articulate  — 

They  seize  me  —  I  must  speak  them  —  be  they  fate ! 

STROPHE   a  1 

Naples  !  thou  heart  of  men  which  ever  pantest 

Naked,  beneath  the  lidless  eye  of  heaven ! 
Elysian  City,  which  to  calm  enchantest 

The  mutinous  air  and  sea :  they  round  thee,  even 

As  sleep  round  Love,  are  driven! 
Metropolis  of  a  ruined  Paradise 

Long  lost,  late  won,  and  yet  but  half  regained ! 
Bright  altar  of  the  bloodless  sacrifice. 

Which  armed  Victory  offers  up  unstained 

To  Love,  the  flower-enchained ! 
Thou  which  wert  once,  and  then  didst  cease  to  be, 
Now  art,  and  henceforth  ever  shalt  be,  free,         ^ 

If  Hope,  and  Truth,  and  Justice  can  avail, 
Hail,  hail,  all  hail ! 

STROPHE   /S  2 

Thou  youngest  giant  birth 

Which  from  the  groaning  earth 
Leap'st,  clothed  in  armour  of  impenetrable  scale  ! 

Last  of  the  Litercessors 

Who  Against  the  Crowned  Transgressors 
Pleadest  before  God^s  love !     Arrayed  in  Wisdom^s  mail. 

Wave  thy  lightning  lance  in  mirth 

Nor  let  thy  high  heart  fail, 

[  197  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

Though  from  their  hundred  gates  the  leagued  Oppressors, 
With  hurried  legions  move  ! 
Hail,  hail,  all  hail ! 

ANTISTROPHE   a  1 

What  though  Cimmerian  Anarchs  dare  blaspheme 

Freedom  and  thee  ?  thy  shield  is  as  a  mirror 
To  make  their  blind  slaves  see,  and  with  fierce  gleam 

To  turn  his  hungry  sword  upon  the  wearer ; 
A  new  Actseon's  error 
Shall  theirs  have  been  —  devoured  by  their  own  hounds. 

Be  thou  like  the  imperial  Basilisk 
Killing  thy  foe  with  unapparent  wounds  ! 

Gaze  on  oppression,  till  at  that  dread  risk 

Aghast  she  pass  from  the  earth's  disk : 
Eear  not,  but  gaze  —  for  freemen  mightier  grow, 
And  slaves  more  feeble,  gazing  on  their  foe ; 

If  Hope  and  Truth  and  Justice  may  avail. 

Thou  shalt  be  great  —  All  hail ! 

ANTISTROPHE    ^  2 

Prom  Freedom^s  form  divine. 

From  Nature's  inmost  shrine. 
Strip  every  impious  gawd,  rend  Error  veil  by  veil : 

O'er  Ruin  desolate. 

O'er  Falsehood's  fallen  state, 
Sit  thou  sublime,  unawed ;  be  the  Destroyer  pale  ! 

And  equal  laws  be  thine. 

And  winged  words  let  sail, 
[  198  ] 


THE   YEARS    1820   AND   1821 

Freighted  with  truth  even  from  the  throne  of  God  : 
That  wealth,  surviving  fate. 
Be  thine.  —  All  hail  ! 

ANTISTROPHE    a  7 

Didst  thou  not  start  to  hear  Spain's  thrilling  psean 

From  land  to  land  re-echoed  solemnly, 
Till  silence  became  music  ?     From  the  jEsean  ^ 
To  the  cold  Alps,  eternal  Italy 
Starts  to  hear  thine  !     The  sea 
Which  paves  the  desert  streets  of  Venice  laughs 

In  light  and  music ;  widowed  Genoa  wan 
By  moonlight,  speUs  ancestral  epitaphs. 
Murmuring,  where  is  Doria  ?  fair  Milan, 
Within  whose  veins  long  ran 
The  viper^s  ^  palsying  venom,  lifts  her  heel 
To  bruise  his  head.     The  signal  and  the  seal 
(If  Hope  and  Truth  and  Justice  can  avail) 
Art  Thou  of  all  these  hopes.  —  O  hail ! 

ANTISTROPHE  /S  7 

Florence  !  beneath  the  sun. 

Of  cities  fairest  one. 
Blushes  within  her  bower  for  Freedom's  expectation : 

From  eyes  of  quenchless  hope 

Eome  tears  the  priestly  cope. 
As  ruling  once  by  power,  so  now  by  admiration. 

An  athlete  stript  to  run 

From  a  remoter  station 

1  Ms&z,  the  island  of  Circe. 

^  The  viper  was  the  armorial  device  of  the  Visconti,  tyrants  of  Milan. 

[  199  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

For  the  high  prize  lost  on  Philippi's  shore :  — 
As  then  Hope,  Truth,  and  Justice  did  avail. 
So  now  may  Fraud  and  Wrong  !     O  hail ! 

EPODE  I  /3 
Hear  ye  the  march  as  of  the  Earth-born  Forms 

Arrayed  against  the  ever-living  Gods  ? 
The  crash  and  darkness  of  a  thousand  storms 
Bursting  their  inaccessible  abodes 

Of  crags  and  thunder-clouds  ? 
See  ye  the  banners  blazoned  to  the  day. 

Inwrought  with  emblems  of  barbaric  pride  ? 
Dissonant  threats  kill  Silence  far  away, 

The  serene  Heaven  which  wraps  our  Eden  wide 
With  iron  light  is  dyed. 
The  Anarchs  of  the  North  lead  forth  their  legions 

Like  chaos  o^er  creation,  uncreating ; 
An  hundred  tribes  nourished  on  strange  religions 
And  lawless  slaveries,  —  down  the  aerial  regions 
Of  the  white  Alps,  desolating, 
Famished  wolves  that  bide  no  waiting, 
Blotting  the  glowing  footsteps  of  old  glory. 
Trampling  our  columned  cities  into  dust. 
Their  dull  and  savage  lust 
On  Beauty^s  corse  to  sickness  satiating  — 
They  come !     The  fields  they  tread  look  black  and  hoary 
With  fire  —  from  their  red  feet  the  streams  run  gory  ! 

EPODE    II  y8 

Great  Spirit,  deepest  Love ! 
Which  rulest  and  dost  move 
[  200  ] 


^  *.  o 

!£■  E  53 


S  t3 


THE   YEARS   1820  AND   1821 

All  things  -which  live  and  are,  within  the  Italian  shore ; 
Who  spread  est  heaven  around  it. 
Whose  woods,  rocks,  waves,  surround  it ; 
Wlio  sittest  in  thy  star,  o'er  ocean's  western  floor. 
Spirit  of  Beauty  !  at  whose  soft  command 

The  sunbeams  and  the  showers  distil  its  foison 
From  the  Earth's  bosom  chill ; 
O  bid  those  beams  be  each  a  blinding  brand 

Of  lightning  !  bid  those  showers  be  dews  of  poison  ! 
Bid  the  Earth's  plenty  kill ! 
Bid  thy  bright  Heaven  above. 
Whilst  light  and  darkness  bound  it. 
Be  their  tomb  who  planned 
To  make  it  ours  and  thine ! 
Or,  with  thine  harmonising  ardours  fill 
And  raise  thy  sons,  as  o'er  the  prone  horizon 
Thy  lamp  feeds  every  twilight  wave  with  fire  — 
Be  man's  high  hope  and  unextinct  desire. 
The  instrument  to  work  thy  will  divine ! 

Then  clouds  from  sunbeams,  antelopes  from  leopards, 
And  frowns  and  fears  from  Thee, 
Would  not  more  swiftly  flee 
Than  Celtic  wolves  from  the  Ausonian  shepherds.  — 
Whatever,  Spirit,  from  thy  starry  shrine 
Thou  yieldest  or  withholdest.  Oh,  let  be 
This  city  of  thy  worship  ever  free  ! 
August  25,  1820.1 

1  During  this  Summer,  under  the  rule  of  Ferdinand  I,  a  much  more 
orderly  condition  had  been  maintained  than  for  a  long  time  before. 

[201  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

AUTUMN:   A  DIEGE 
I 

The  warm  sun  is  failing,  the  bleak  wind  is  wailing, 
The  bare  boughs  are  sighing,  the  pale  flowers  are  dying. 

And  the  year 
On  the  earth,  her  deathbed,  in  a  shroud  of  leaves  dead. 
Is  lying. 

Come,  months,  come  away. 

From  November  to  May, 

In  your  saddest  array ; 

Follow  the  bier 

Of  the  dead  cold  year. 
And  like  dim  shadows  watch  by  her  sepulchre. 

II 

The  chill  rain  is  falling,  the  nipt  worm  is  crawling. 
The  rivers  are  swelling,  the  thunder  is  knelKng 

For  the  year ; 
The  blithe  swallows  are  flown,  and  the  lizards  each  gone 
To  his  dweUing. 

Come,  months,  come  away ; 

Put  on  white,  black,  and  grey ; 

Let  your  light  sisters  play  — 

Ye,  follow  the  bier 

Of  the  dead  cold  year. 
And  make  her  grave  green  with  tear  on  tear. 


[  202  ] 


THE  YEARS   1820  AND   1821 


THE  TOWER  OF  FAMINE  i 

Amid  the  desolation  of  a  city, 
"Which  was  the  cradle,  and  is  now  the  grave 
Of  an  extinguished  people,  so  that  pity 
Weeps  o'er  the  shipwrecks  of  oblivion's  wave. 
There  stands  the  Tower  of  Famine.     It  is  built 

Upon  some  prison  homes,  whose  dwellers  rave 

For  bread,  and  gold,  and  blood ;  pain,  linked  to  guilt. 

Agitates  the  light  flame  of  their  hours. 

Until  its  vital  oil  is  spent  or  spilt. 

There  stands  the  pile,  a  tower  amid  the  towers 
And  sacred  domes ;  each  marble-ribbed  roof. 
The  brazen-gated  temples,  and  the  bowers 

Of  solitary  wealth  ;  the  tempest-proof 

Pavilions  of  the  dark  Italian  air. 

Are  by  its  presence  dimmed  —  they  stand  aloof. 

And  are  withdrawn  —  so  that  the  world  is  bare,  — 
As  if  a  spectre,  wrapt  in  shapeless  terror. 
Amid  a  company  of  ladies  fair 

Should  glide  and  glow,  till  it  became  a  mirror 
Of  all  their  beauty,  —  and  their  hair  and  hue. 
The  life  of  their  sweet  eyes,  with  all  its  error. 
Should  be  absorbed,  till  they  to  marble  grew. 

1  The  prison  of  Ugolino,  whose  story  is  told  by  Dante,  —  Inferno, 
XXXIII,  — still  stood  in  Shelley's  time,  but  exists  no  longer.  It  was  built 
on  the  Piazza  de'  Cavalieri,  Pisa. 

[  203  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN  ITALY 

EPIPSYCHIDION 

VERSES  ADDRESSED   TO  THE   NOBLE  AND   UNFOR- 
TUNATE LADY,  EMILIA  V 

NOW   IMPRISONED   IN    THE    CONVENT    OF    ST.  ANNE,  PISA 

L'anima  amante  si  slancia  fuori  del  create,  e  si  crea  nell'  infinite  un 
Mondo  tutto  per  essa,  diverso  assai  da  questo  oscuro  e  pauroso  baratro.l 

Her  own  woeds. 

My  Song,  I  fear  that  thou  wilt  find  but  few 
Who  fitly  shall  conceive  thy  reasoning. 
Of  such  hard  matter  dost  thou  entertain; 
Whence,  if  by  misadventure,  chance  should  bring 
Thee  to  base  company  (as  chance  may  do). 
Quite  unaware  of  what  thou  dost  contain, 
I  prithee,  comfort  thy  sweet  self  again. 
My  last  delight !  tell  them  that  they  are  dull, 
And  bid  them  own  that  thou  art  beautiful. 

ADVERTISEMENT 

The  Writer  of  the  following  Lines  died  at  Florence,  as 
he  was  preparing  for  a  voyage  to  one  of  the  wildest  of  the 
Sporades,  which  he  had  bought,  and  where  he  had  fitted 
up  the  ruins  of  an  old  building,  and  where  it  was  his  hope 
to  have  realised  a  scheme  of  life,  suited  perhaps  to  that 
happier  and  better  world  of  which  he  is  now  an  inhabitant, 
but  hardly  practicable  in  this.  His  life  was  singular ;  less 
on  account  of  the  romantic  vicissitudes  which  diversified 

^  The  loving  soul  launches  beyond  creation  and  creates  for  itself  in  the 
infinite  a  world  all  its  own,  far  difi'erent  from  this  obscure  and  terrifying 
golf.  —  Translation  of  W.  M.  Rossetti. 

[  204  ] 


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THE   YEARS   1820  AND   1821 

it,  than  the  ideal  tinge  which  it  received  from  his  own 
character  and  feelings.  The  present  Poem,  like  the  "  Vita 
Nuova^-'  of  Dante,  is  sufiiciently  intelligible  to  a  certain 
class  of  readers  without  a  matter-of-fact  history  of  the 
circumstances  to  which  it  relates;  and  to  a  certain  other 
class  it  must  ever  remain  incomprehensible,  from  a  defect 
of  a  common  organ  of  perception  for  the  ideas  of  which 
it  treats.  Not  but  that,  gran  vergogna  sarebhe  a  colid, 
die  rimasse  cosa  sotto  veste  di  figura,  o  di  colore  rettorico, 
e  domandato  non  sapesse  denudare  le  sue  parole  da  cotal 
veste,  in  guisa  die  avissero  verace  intendimento} 

The  present  poem  appears  to  have  been  intended  by  the 
Writer  as  the  dedication  to  some  longer  one.  The  stanza 
on  the  opposite  page  is  almost  a  literal  translation  from 
Dante's  famous  Canzone 

Vol,  cK  inteiidendo,  il  terzo  del  movete,  etc. 
The  presumptuous  application  of  the  concluding  lines  to 
his  own  composition  will  raise  a  smile  at  the  expense  of 
my  unfortunate  friend :  be  it  a  smile  not  of  contempt,  but 
pity.  S. 

EPIPSYCHIDION 

Sweet  Spirit !  Sister  of  that  orphan  one, 
Whose  empire  is  the  name  thou  weepest  on, 
In  my  heart's  temple  I  suspend  to  thee 
These  votive  wreaths  of  withered  memory. 

1  A  quotation  from  Dante,  thus  rendered  Ly  W.  M.  Rossetti :  "  Great 
were  his  shame  who  should  rhyme  anything  under  a  garh  of  metaphor  or 
rhetorical  colour,  and  then,  being  asked,  should  be  incapable  of  stripping  his 
words  of  this  garb  so  that  they  might  have  a  veritable  meaning." 

[  205  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN  ITALY 

Poor  captive  bird !  who,  from  thy  narrow  cage, 
Pourest  such  music,  that  it  might  assuage 
The  rugged  hearts  of  those  who  prisoned  thee. 
Were  they  not  deaf  to  all  sweet  melody ; 
This  song  shall  be  thy  rose  :  its  petals  pale 
Are  dead,  indeed,  my  adored  Nightingale  ! 
But  soft  and  fragrant  is  the  faded  blossom. 
And  it  has  no  thorn  left  to  wound  thy  bosom. 

High,  spirit- winged  Heart !  who  dost  for  ever 
Beat  thine  unfeeling  bars  with  vain  endeavour. 
Till  those  bright  plumes  of  thought,  in  which  arrayed 
It  over-soared  this  low  and  worldly  shade, 
Lie  shattered ;  and  thy  panting,  wounded  breast 
Stains  with  dear  blood  its  unmaternal  nest ! 
I  weep  vain  tears :  blood  would  less  bitter  be. 
Yet  poured  forth  gladlier,  could  it  profit  thee. 

Seraph  of  Heaven  !  too  gentle  to  be  human. 
Yelling  beneath  that  radiant  form  of  Woman 
All  that  is  insupportable  in  thee 
Of  light,  and  love,  and  immortality  ! 
Sweet  Benediction  in  the  eternal  Curse  ! 
Yeiled  Glory  of  this  lampless  Universe ! 
Thou  Moon  beyond  the  clouds  !    Thou  living  Form 
Among  the  Dead !     Thou  Star  above  the  Storm  ! 
Thou  Wonder,  and  thou  Beauty,  and  thou  Terror ! 
Thou  Harmony  of  Nature^s  art !     Thou  Mirror 
In  whom,  as  in  the  splendour  of  the  sun, 
All  shapes  look  glorious  which  thou  gazest  on ! 
[  206  ] 


a"  2. 


r;  — 
S    > 


THE   YEARS   1820   AND   1821 

Ay,  even  the  dim  words  which  obscure  thee  now 

Flash,  lightning-hke  with  unaccustomed  glow. 

I  pray  thee  that  thou  blot  from  this  sad  song 

All  of  its  much  mortality  and  wrong, 

With  those  clear  drops,  which  start  like  sacred  dew 

From  the  twin  lights  thy  sweet  soul  darkens  through, 

Weeping,  till  sorrow  becomes  ecstasy : 

Then  smile  on  it,  so  that  it  may  not  die. 

I  never  thought  before  my  death  to  see 
Youth's  vision  thus  made  perfect.     Emily, 
I  love  thee ;  thougli  the  world  by  no  thin  name 
Will  hide  that  love,  from  its  unvalued  shame. 
Would  we  two  had  been  twins  of  the  same  mother ! 
Or,  that  the  name  my  heart  lent  to  another 
Could  be  a  sister's  bond  for  her  and  thee. 
Blending  two  beams  of  one  eternity ! 
Yet  were  one  lawful  and  the  other  true. 
These  names,  though  dear,  could  paint  not,  as  is  due. 
How  beyond  refuge  I  am  thine.     Ah  me  ! 
I  am  not  thine :  I  am  a  part  of  thee. 

Sweet   Lamp !    my   moth-like   Muse   has   burnt   its 
wings; 
Or,  like  a  dying  swan  who  soars  and  sings. 
Young  Love  should  teach  Time,  in  his  own  grey  style. 
All  that  thou  art.     Art  thou  not  void  of  guile, 
A  lovely  soul  formed  to  be  blest  and  bless  ? 
A  well  of  sealed  and  secret  happiness. 
Whose  waters  like  blithe  light  and  music  are, 
Vanquished  dissonance  and  gloom  ?     A  Star 
[207  ] 


WITH    SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

Which  moves  not  in  the  moving  Heavens^  alone  ? 

A  smile  amid  dark  frowns?  a  gentle  tone 

Amid  rude  voices?  a  beloved  light? 

A  Solitude,  a  Refuge,  a  Delight  ? 

A  Lute,  which  those  whom  Love  has  taught  to  play 

Make  music  on,  to  soothe  the  roughest  day 

And  lull  fond  Grief  asleep?  a  buried  treasure? 

A  cradle  of  young  thoughts  of  wingless  pleasure ; 

A  violet-shrouded  grave  of  Woe  ?  —  I  measure 

The  world  of  fancies,  seeking  one  like  thee. 

And  find  —  alas  !  mine  own  infirmity. 

She  met  me.  Stranger,  upon  life's  rough  way. 
And  lured  me  towards  sweet  Death ;  as  Night  by  Day, 
Winter  by  Spring,  or  Sorrow  by  swift  Hope, 
Led  into  light,  life,  peace.     An  antelope. 
In  the  suspended  impulse  of  its  lightness, 
Were  less  ethereally  light :  the  brightness 
Of  her  divinest  presence  trembles  through 
Her  Hmbs,  as  underneath  a  cloud  of  dew 
Embodied  in  the  windless  Heaven  of  June 
Amid  the  splendour-winged  stars,  the  Moon 
Burns,  inextinguishably  beautiful : 
And  from  her  lips,  as  from  a  hyacinth  full 
Of  honey-dew,  a  liquid  murmur  drops. 
Killing  the  sense  with  passion,  sweet  as  stops 
Of  planetary  music  heard  in  trance. 
In  her  mild  lights  the  starry  spirits  dance. 
The  sunbeams  of  those  wells  which  ever  leap 
Under  the  lightnings  of  the  soul — too  deep 
[  208  ] 


THE   YEARS   1820  AND   1821 

For  the  brief  fathom-line  of  thought  or  sense. 
The  glory  of  her  being,  issuing  thence. 
Stains  the  dead,  blank,  cold  air  with  a  warm  shade 
Of  unentangled  intermixture,  made 
By  Love,  of  light  and  motion :  one  intense 
Diffusion,  one  serene  .Omnipresence, 
Whose  flowing  outlines  mingle  in  their  flowing 
Around  her  cheeks  and  utmost  fingers  glowing 
With  the  unintermitted  blood,  which  there 
Quivers  (as  in  a  fleece  of  snow-like  air 
The  crimson  pulse  of  livmg  Morn  may  quiver). 
Continuously  prolonged,  and  ending  never. 
Till  they  are  lost,  and  in  that  Beauty  furled 
Which  penetrates  and  clasps  and  fills  the  world ; 
Scarce  visible  from  extreme  loveliness. 
Warm  fragrance  seems  to  fall  from  her  light  dress 
And  her  loose  hair ;  and  where  some  heavy  tress 
The  air  of  her  own  speed  has  disentwined, 
The  sweetness  seems  to  satiate  the  faint  wind ; 
And  in  the  soul  a  wild  odour  is  felt. 
Beyond  the  sense,  like  fiery  dews  that  melt 
Into  the  bosom  of  a  frozen  bud.  — 
See  where  she  stands  !  a  mortal  shape  indued 
With  love  and  life  and  light  and  deity. 
And  motion  which  may  change  but  cannot  die ; 
An  image  of  some  bright  Eternity ; 
A  shadow  of  some  golden  dream ;  a  Splendour 
Leaving  the  third  sphere  pilotless ;  a  tender 
Eeflection  of  the  eternal  Moon  of  Love 
Under  whose  motions  lifers  dull  billows  move; 
14  [  209  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN  ITALY 

A  Metaphor  of  Spring  and  Youth  and  Morning ; 
A  Vision  like  incarnate  April,  warning, 
With  smiles  and  tears,  Prost  the  anatomy 
Into  his  Summer  grave. 

Ah,  woe  is  me  ! 
What  have  I  dared  ?  where  am  I  lifted  ?  how 
Shall  I  descend,  and  perish  not  ?     I  know 
That  Love  makes  all  things  equal :  I  have  heard 
By  mine  own  heart  this  joyous  truth  averred : 
The  spirit  of  the  worm  beneath  the  sod 
In  love  and  worship,  blends  itself  with  God. 

Spouse  !  Sister  !  Angel !  Pilot  of  the  fate 
Whose  course  has  been  so  starless  !  Oh,  too  late 
Beloved  !  Oh,  too  soon  adored,  by  me ! 
Por  in  the  fields  of  immortality 
My  spirit  should  at  first  have  worshijjped  thine, 
A  divine  presence  in  a  place  divine ; 
Or  should  have  moved  beside  it  on  this  earth, 
A  shadow  of  that  substance,  from  its  birth; 
But  not  as  now  :  —  I  love  thee ;  yes,  I  feel 
That  on  the  fountain  of  my  heart  a  seal 
Is  set,  to  keep  its  waters  pure  and  bright 
Por  thee,  since  in  those  tears  thou  hast  delight. 
We  —  are  we  not  formed,  as  notes  of  music  are, 
Por  one  another,  though  dissimilar ; 
Such  difference  without  discord,  as  can  make 
Those  sweetest  sounds,  in  which  all  spirits  shake 
As  trembling  leaves  in  a  continuous  air  ? 
[  210  ] 


M 


ONUMENT  to  .Toliii  Kcnts. 


—  See  p.  228. 


THE   YEARS   1820  AND   1821 

Thy  wisdom  speaks  in  me^  aud  bids  me  dare 
Beacon  the  rocks  on  which  high  hearts  are  wrecked. 
I  never  was  attached  to  that  great  sect, 
Whose  doctrine  is,  that  each  one  should  select 
Out  of  the  crowd  a  mistress  or  a  friend, 
And  all  the  rest,  though  fair  and  wise,  comniend 
To  cold  oblivion,  though  it  is  in  the  code 
Of  modern  morals,  and  the  beaten  road 
Which  those  poor  slaves  with  weary  footsteps  tread, 
Who  travel  to  their  home  among  the  dead 
By  the  broad  highway  of  the  world,  and  so 
With  one  chained  friend,  perhaps  a  jealous  foe, 
The  dreariest  and  the  longest  journey  go. 

True  Love  in  this  differs  from  gold  and  clay, 
That  to  divide  is  not  to  take  away. 
Love  is  like  understanding,  that  grows  bright. 
Gazing  on  many  truths  ;  't  is  like  thy  light. 
Imagination  !  which  from  earth  and  sky. 
And  from  the  depths  of  human  phantasy, 
As  from  a  thousand  prisms  and  mirrors,  fills 
The  universe  with  glorious  beams,  and  kills 
Error,  the  worm,  with  many  a  sun-like  arrow 
Of  its  reverberated  lightning.     Narrow 
The  heart  that  loves,  the  brain  that  contemplates, 
The  life  that  wears,  the  spirit  that  creates 
One  object,  and  one  form,  and  builds  thereby 
A  sepulchre  for  its  eternity  ! 

Mind  from  its  object  differs  most  in  this : 
Evil  from  good ;  misery  from  happmess ; 
[211  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN   ITALY 

The  baser  from  the  nobler ;  the  impure 
And  frailj  from  what  is  clear  and  must  endure. 
If  you  divide  suffering  and  dross,  you  may 
Diminish  till  it  is  consumed  away ; 
If  you  divide  pleasure  and  love  and  thought, 
Each  part  exceeds  the  whole ;  and  we  know  not 
How  much,  while  any  yet  remains  unshared, 
Of  pleasure  may  be  gained,  of  sorrow  spared  : 
This  truth  is  that  deep  well,  whence  sages  draw 
The  unenvied  light  of  hope ;  the  eternal  law 
By  which  those  live  to  whom  this  world  of  life 
Is  as  a  garden  ravaged,  and  whose  strife 
Tills  for  the  promise  of  a  later  birth 
The  wHdemess  of  this  elysian  earth. 

There  was  a  Being  whom  my  spirit  oft 
Met  on  its  visioned  wanderings,  far  aloft, 
In  the  clear  golden  prime  of  my  youth's  dawn. 
Upon  the  fairy  isles  of  sunny  lawn. 
Amid  the  enchanted  mountains,  and  the  caves 
Of  divine  sleep,  and  on  the  air-like  waves 
Of  wonder-level  dream,  whose  tremulous  floor 
Paved  her  light  steps ;  —  on  an  imagined  shore. 
Under  the  grey  beak  of  some  promontory 
She  met  me,  robed  in  such  exceeding  glory. 
That  I  beheld  her  not.     In  solitudes 
Her  voice  came  to  me  through  the  whispering  woods. 
And  from  the  fountains,  and  the  odours  deep 
Of  flowers,  which,  like  lips  murmuring  in  their  sleep 
Of  the  sweet  kisses  which  had  lulled  them  there, 
[  212  ] 


THE   YEARS   1820   AND   1821 

Breathed  but  of  her  to  the  enamoured  air ; 
And  from  the  breezes  whether  low  or  loud. 
And  from  the  rain  of  every  passing  cloud, 
And  from  the  singing  of  the  Summer  birds^ 
And  from  all  sounds^  all  silence.     In  the  words 
Of  antique  verse  and  high  romance,  —  in  form, 
Sound,  colour  —  in  whatever  checks  that  storm 
Which  with  the  shattered  present  chokes  the  past  — 
And  in  that  best  philosophy,  whose  taste 
Makes  this  cold  common  hell,  our  life,  a  doom 
As  glorious  as  a  fiery  martyrdom  — 
Her  Spirit  was  the  harmony  of  truth. 

Then,  from  the  caverns  of  my  dreamy  youth 
I  sprang,  as  one  sandalled  witli  plumes  of  fire. 
And  towards  the  loadstar  of  my  one  desire, 
I  flitted,  like  a  dizzy  moth,  whose  flight 
Is  as  a  dead  leafs  in  the  owlet  light. 
When  it  would  seek  in  Hesper's  setting  sphere 
A  radiant  death,  a  fiery  sepulchre, 
As  if  it  were  a  lamp  of  earthly  flame.  — 
But  She,  whom  prayers  or  tears  then  could  not  tame. 
Passed  like  a  God  throned  on  a  winged  planet. 
Whose  burning  plumes  to  tenfold  swiftness  fan  it. 
Into  the  dreary  cone  of  our  life's  shade ; 
And  as  a  man  with  mighty  loss  dismayed, 
I  would  have  followed,  though  the  grave  between 
Yawned  like  a  gulf  whose  spectres  are  unseen : 
When  a  voice  said  :  "  O  Thou  of  hearts  the  weakest. 
The  phantom  is  beside  thee  whom  thou  seekest." 
[  213  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN  ITALY 

Then  I  — "  Where  ?  "  the  world's  echo  answered  "  where ! " 
And  in  that  silence,  and  in  my  despair, 
I  questioned  every  tongueless  wind  that  flew 
Over  my  tower  of  mourning,  if  it  knew 
Whither  't  was  fled,  this  soul  out  of  my  soul ; 
And  murmured  names  and  spells  which  have  control 
Over  the  sightless  tyrants  of  our  fate ; 
But  neither  prayer  nor  verse  could  dissipate 
The  night  which  closed  on  her ;  nor  uncreate 
That  world  within  this  chaos,  mine  and  me, 
Of  which  she  was  the  veiled  Divinity, 
The  world  I  say  of  thoughts  that  worshipped  her : 
And  therefore  I  went  forth,  with  hope  and  fear 
And  every  gentle  passion  sick  to  death, 
Feeding  my  course  with  expectation's  breath. 
Into  the  wintry  forest  of  our  life ; 
And  struggling  through  its  error  with  vain  strife, 
And  stumbling  in  my  weakness  and  my  haste. 
And  half  bewildered  by  new  forms,  I  passed 
Seeking  among  those  untaught  foresters 
If  I  could  find  one  form  resembling  hers. 
In  which  she  might  have  masked  herself  from  me. 
There,  —  One,  whose  voice  was  venomed  melody 
Sate  by  a  well,  under  blue  nightshade  bowers ; 
The  breath  of  her  false  mouth  was  like  faint  flowers, 
Her  touch  was  as  electric  poison,  —  flame 
Out  of  her  looks  into  my  vitals  came. 
And  from  her  living  cheeks  and  bosom  flew 
A  killing  air,  which  pierced  like  honey-dew 
Into  the  core  of  my  green  heart,  and  lay 
[  214  ] 


s 


HELLFA"S  Gnive  in  the  Protc-staiit 
Cemetery  at  Home. 


"  The  auft  sky  smiles,  — the  low  wind  whispers  near  ; 
'  7'  is  Adonais  calls .'  oh,  hasten  thither. 
No  more  let  Life  divide  what  Death  can  Join  together." 

—  Adonais,  p.  242. 


THE   YEARS   1820  AND    1821 

Upon  its  leaves ;  until,  as  hair  grown  grey 
O'er  a  young  brow,  they  hid  its  unblown  prime 
With  ruins  of  unseasonable  time. 

In  many  mortal  forms  I  rashly  sought 
The  shadow  of  that  idol  of  my  thought. 
And  some  were  fair  —  but  beauty  dies  away: 
Others  were  wise  —  but  honeyed  words  betray : 
And  One  was  true  —  oh  !  why  not  true  to  me  ? 
Then,  as  a  hunted  deer  that  could  not  flee, 
I  turned  upon  my  thoughts,  and  stood  at  bay. 
Wounded  and  weak  and  panting ;  the  cold  day 
Trembled,  for  pity  of  my  strife  and  pain. 
When,  like  a  noonday  dawn,  there  shone  again 
Deliverance.     One  stood  on  my  path  who  seemed 
As  like  the  glorious  shape  which  I  had  dreamed. 
As  is  the  Moon,  whose  changes  ever  run 
Into  themselves,  to  the  eternal  Sun ; 
The  cold  chaste  Moon,  the  Queen  of  Heaven's  bright  isles. 
Who  makes  all  beautiful  on  which  she  smiles. 
That  wandering  shrine  of  soft  yet  icy  flame 
Which  ever  is  transformed,  yet  still  the  same. 
And  Avarms  not  but  illumines.     Young  and  fair 
As  the  descended  Spirit  of  that  sphere, 
She  hid  me,  as  the  Moon  may  hide  the  night 
From  its  own  darkness,  until  all  was  bright 
Between  the  heaven  and  earth  of  my  calm  mind ; 
And,  as  a  cloud  charioted  by  the  wind. 
She  led  me  to  a  cave  in  that  wild  place. 
And  sate  beside  me,  with  her  downward  face 
[  215  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

Illiiinining  my  slumbers,  like  the  Moon 
Waxing  and  waning  o'er  Endymion. 
And  I  was  laid  asleep,  spirit  and  limb, 
And  all  my  being  became  bright  or  dim 
As  the  Moon's  image  in  a  Summer  sea. 
According  as  she  smiled  or  frowned  on  me ; 
And  there  I  lay,  within  a  chaste  cold  bed : 
Alas,  I  then  was  nor  alive  nor  dead :  — 
For  at  her  silver  voice  came  Death  and  Life, 
Unmindful  each  of  their  accustomed  strife. 
Masked  like  twin  babes,  a  sister  and  a  brother, 
The  wandering  hopes  of  one  abandoned  mother. 
And  through  the  cavern  without  wings  they  flew. 
And  cried  "Away,  he  is  not  of  our  crew/' 
I  wept,  and  though  it  be  a  dream,  I  weep. 

What  storms  then  shook  the  ocean  of  my  sleep. 
Blotting  tliat  Moon,  whose  pale  and  waning  lips 
Then  shrank  as  in  the  sickness  of  eclipse ;  — 
And  how  my  soul  was  as  a  lampless  sea. 
And  who  was  then  its  tempest ;  and  when  She, 
The  planet  of  that  hour,  was  quenched,  what  frost 
Crept  o'er  those  waters,  till  from  coast  to  coast 
The  moving  billows  of  my  being  fell 
Into  a  death  of  ice,  immovable ;  — 
And  then  —  what  earthquakes  made  it  gape  and  split, 
The  white  Moon  smiling  all  the  while  on  it, 
These  words  conceal :  —  If  not,  each  word  would  be 
The  key  of  staunchless  tears.     Weep  not  for  me  ! 

[  216  ] 


THE   YEARS   1820   AND   1821 

At  length,  into  the  obscure  forest  came 
The  Vision  I  had  sought  through  grief  and  shame. 
Athwart  that  wintry  wilderness  of  thorns 
Flashed  from  her  motion  splendour  like  the  morn^s, 
And  from  her  presence  life  was  radiated 
Through  the  grey  earth  and  branches  bare  and  dead ; 
So  that  her  way  was  paved,  and  roofed  above 
With  flowers  as  soft  as  thoughts  of  budding  love ; 
And  music  from  her  respiration  spread 
Like  light,  —  all  other  sounds  were  penetrated 
By  the  small,  still,  sweet  spirit  of  that  sound. 
So  that  the  savage  winds  hung  mute  around ; 
And  odours  warm  and  fresh  fell  from  her  hair 
Dissolving  the  dull  cold  in  the  frore  air  : 
Soft  as  an  Incarnation  of  the  Sun, 
When  light  is  changed  to  love,  this  glorious  One 
Floated  into  the  cavern  where  I  lay. 
And  called  my  spirit,  and  the  dreaming  clay 
Was  lifted  by  the  thing  that  dreamed  below 
As  smoke  by  fire,  and  in  her  beauty's  glow 
I  stood,  and  felt  the  dawn  of  my  long  night 
Was  penetrating  me  with  living  light : 
I  knew  it  was  the  Vision  veiled  from  me 
So  many  years  —  that  it  was  Emily. 

Twin  Spheres  of  light  who  rule  this  passive  Earth, 
This  world  of  love,  this  me ;  and  into  birth 
Awaken  all  its  fruits  and  flowers,  and  dart 
Magnetic  might  into  its  central  heart ; 
And  lift  its  billows  and  its  mists,  and  guide 
[217] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN   ITALY 

By  everlasting  laws,  each  wind  and  tide 
To  its  fit  cloud  and  its  appointed  cave; 
And  lull  its  storms^  each  in  the  craggy  grave 
Which  was  its  cradle,  luring  to  faint  bowers 
The  armies  of  the  rainbow- winged  showers  ; 
And,  as  those  married  lights,  which  from  the  towers 
Of  Heaven  look  forth  and  fold  the  wandering  globe 
In  liquid  sleep  and  splendour,  as  a  robe. 
And  all  their  many-mingled  influence  blend, 
If  equal,  yet  unlike,  to  one  sweet  end ;  — 
So  ye,  bright  regents,  with  alternate  sway 
Govern  my  sphere  of  being,  night  and  day  ! 
Thou,  not  disdaining  even  a  borrowed  might ; 
Thou,  not  eclipsing  a  remoter  light ; 
And,  through  the  shadow  of  the  seasons  three. 
From  Spring  to  Autumn's  sere  maturity. 
Light  it  into  the  Winter  of  the  tomb. 
Where  it  may  ripen  to  a  brighter  bloom! 
Thou  too,  O  Comet  beautiful  and  fierce. 
Who  drew  the  heart  of  this  frail  Universe 
Towards  thine  own ;  till,  wrecked  in  that  convulsion, 
Alternating  attraction  and  repulsion, 
Thine  went  astray  and  that  was  rent  in  twain ; 
Oh,  float  into  our  azure  heaven  again ! 
Be  there  love's  folding-star  at  thy  return ; 
The  living  Sun  will  feed  thee  from  its  urn 
Of  golden  fire  ;  the  Moon  will  veil  her  horn 
In  thy  last  smiles ;  adoring  Even  and  Morn 
Will  worship  thee  with  incense  of  calm  breath 
And  lights  and  shadows  ;  as  the  star  of  Death 
[  218  J 


N 


JIOBE.     In  rilizi  Gallurv. 


"  All  worldly  thouf/hts  and  cares  seem  to  vanish  from 
fore  the  sublime  emotions  such  spectachs  create.'''' 

—  See  Letter  from  Florence,  p.  243. 


THE  YEARS   1820   AND   1821 

And  Birth  is  worshipped  bj  those  sisters  wild 
Called  Hope  and  Fear  —  upon  the  heart  are  piled 
Their  offerings,  —  of  this  sacrifice  divine 
A  World  shall  be  the  altar. 

Lady  mine, 
Scorn  not  these  flowers  of  thought,  the  fading  birth 
Which  from  its  heart  of  hearts  that  plant  puts  forth 
Whose  fruit,  made  perfect  by  thy  sunny  eyes, 
Will  be  as  of  the  trees  of  Paradise. 
The  day  is  come,  and  thou  wilt  fly  with  me  ! 
To  whatsoever  of  dull  mortality 
Is  mine,  remain  a  vestal  sister  still  ; 
To  the  intense,  the  deep,  the  imperishable, 
Not  mine  but  me,  henceforth  be  thou  united 
Even  as  a  bride,  delighting  and  delighted. 
The  hour  is  come  :  —  the  destined  star  has  risen 
Which  shall  descend  upon  a  vacant  prison. 
The  walls  are  high,  the  gates  are  strong,  thick  set 
The  sentinels  —  but  true  love  never  yet 
Was  thus  constrained  :  it  overleaps  all  fence  : 
Like  lightning,  with  invisible  violence 
Piercing  its  continents  j  like  Heaven^s  free  breath, 
Which  he  who  grasps  can  hold  not ;  liker  Death, 
Who  rides  upon  a  thought,  and  makes  his  way 
Through  temple,  tower,  and  palace,  and  the  array 
Of  arms.     More  strength  has  Love  than  he  or  they ; 
For  he  can  burst  his  charnel,  and  make  free 
The  limbs  in  chains,  the  heart  in  agony, 
The  soul  in  dust  and  chaos. 

[  219  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

Emily, 
A  ship  is  floating  in  the  harbour  now, 
A  wind  is  hovering  o'er  the  mountain's  brow; 
There  is  a  path  on  the  sea's  azure  floor. 
No  keel  has  ever  ploughed  that  path  before; 
The  halcyons  brood  around  the  foamless  isles ; 
The  treacherous  Ocean  has  forsworn  its  wiles; 
The  merry  mariners  are  bold  and  free  : 
Say,  my  heart's  sister,  wilt  thou  sail  with  me  ? 
Our  bark  is  as  an  albatross,  whose  nest 
Is  a  far  Eden  of  the  purple  east ; 
And  we  between  her  wings  will  sit,  while  Night 
And  Day,  and  Storm,  and  Calm,  pursue  their  flight. 
Our  ministers,  along  the  boundless  sea. 
Treading  each  other's  heels,  unheededly. 
It  is  an  isle  under  Ionian  skies. 
Beautiful  as  a  wreck  of  Paradise, 
And,  for  the  harbours  are  not  safe  and  good. 
This  land  would  have  remained  a  solitude 
But  for  some  pastoral  people  native  there. 
Who  from  the  elysian,  clear,  and  golden  air 
Draw  the  last  spirit  of  tlie  age  of  gold. 
Simple  and  spirited,  innocent  and  bold. 
The  blue  vEgean  girds  this  chosen  home, 
With  ever-changing  sound  and  light  and  foam. 
Kissing  the  sifted  sands,  and  caverns  hoar ; 
And  all  the  winds  wandering  along  the  shore 
Undulate  with  the  undulating  tide. 
There  are  thick  woods  where  sylvan  forms  abide ; 
And  many  a  fountain,  rivulet,  and  pond, 
[  220  ] 


THE  YEARS  1820   AND   1821 

As  clear  as  elemental  diamond, 
Or  serene  morning  air ;  and  far  beyond, 
The  mossy  tracks  made  by  the  goats  and  deer 
(Which  the  rough  shepherd  treads  but  once  a  year), 
Pierce  into  glades,  caverns,  and  bowers,  and  halls 
Built  round  with  ivy,  which  the  waterfalls 
Illumining,  with  sound  that  never  fails 
Accompany  the  noonday  nightingales  ; 
And  all  the  place  is  peopled  with  sweet  airs. 
The  light  clear  element  whicli  the  isle  wears 
Is  heavy  with  the  scent  of  lemon-flowers. 
Which  floats  like  mist  laden  with  unseen  showers 
And  falls  upon  the  eyelids  like  faint  sleep ; 
And  from  the  moss  violets  and  jonquils  peep. 
And  dart  their  arrowy  odour  through  tlie  brain 
Till  you  might  faint  with  that  delicious  pain. 
And  every  motion,  odour,  beam,  and  tone. 
With  that  deep  music  is  in  unison : 
Which  is  a  soul  within  the  soul  —  they  seem 
Like  echoes  of  an  antenatal  dream. 
It  is  an  isle  'twixt  Heaven,  Air,  Earth,  and  Sea, 
Cradled,  and  hung  in  clear  tranquillity ; 
Bright  as  that  wandering  Eden,  Lucifer, 
Washed  by  the  soft  blue  Oceans  of  young  air. 
It  is  a  favoured  place.     Famine  or  blight, 
Pestilence,  war  and  earthquake,  never  light 
Upon  its  mountain-peaks ;  blind  vultures,  they 
Sail  onward  far  upon  their  fatal  way  : 
The  winged  storms,  chanting  their  thunder-psalm 
To  other  lands,  leave  azure  chasms  of  calm 
[  221  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN   ITALY 

Over  this  isle,  or  weep  themselves  in  dew, 
From  Avhich  its  fields  and  woods  ever  renew 
Their  green  and  golden  immortality. 
And  from  the  sea  there  rise,  and  from  the  sky 
There  fall,  clear  exhalations,  soft  and  bright, 
Veil  after  veil,  each  hidhig  some  delight. 
Which  sun  or  moon  or  zephyr  draws  aside. 
Till  the  islets  beauty,  like  a  naked  bride 
Glowing  at  once  with  love  and  loveliness^ 
Blushes  and  trembles  at  its  own  excess : 
Yet,  like  a  buried  lamp,  a  Soul  no  less 
Burns  in  the  heart  of  this  delicious  isle. 
An  atom  of  th'  Eternal,  whose  own  smile 
Unfolds  itself,  and  may  be  felt,  not  seen 
O'er  the  grey  rocks,  blue  waves,  and  forests  green, 
Filling  their  bare  and  void  interstices. — 

But  the  chief  marvel  of  the  wilderness 
Is  a  lone  dwelling,  built  by  whom  or  how 
None  of  the  rustic  island-people  know  : 
'T  is  not  a  tower  of  strength,  though  with  its  height 
It  overtops  the  woods ;  but,  for  delight. 
Some  wise  and  tender  Ocean-King,  ere  crime 
Had  been  invente  ^   in  the  world's  young  prime. 
Reared  it,  a  wonder  of  that  simple  time. 
An  envy  of  the  isles,  a  pleasure-house 
Made  sacred  to  his  sister  and  his  spouse. 
It  scarce  seems  now  a  wreck  of  human  art. 
But,  as  it  were.  Titanic ;  in  the  heart 
Of  Earth  having  assumed  its  form,  then  grown 
[  222  ] 


"DASILICA  of  S:m  Vil;ile, 
Ravenna. 


—  See  Letter  from  Raveuna,  p.  244. 


THE   YEARS   1820   AND   1821 

Out  of  the  mountains,  from  the  living  stone, 

Lifting  itself  in  caverns  light  and  high  : 

For  all  the  antique  and  learned  imagery 

Has  been  erased,  and  in  the  place  of  it 

The  ivy  and  the  wild-vine  interknit 

The  volumes  of  their  many  twining  stems ; 

Parasite  flowers  illume  witli  dewy  gems 

The  lampless  halls,  and  when  they  fade,  the  sky 

Peeps  through  their  winter-woof  of  tracery 

With  moonlight  patches,  or  star  atoms  keen. 

Or  fragments  of  the  day's  intense  serene ;  — 

Working  mosaic  on  their  Parian  floors. 

And,  day  and  night,  aloof,  from  the  high  towers 

And  terraces,  the  Earth  and  Ocean  seem 

To  sleep  in  one  another's  arms,  and  dream 

Of  waves,  flowers,  clouds,  woods,  rocks,  and  all  that  we 

Eead  in  their  smiles,  and  call  reality. 

This  isle  and  house  are  mine,  and  I  have  vowed 
Thee  to  be  lady  of  the  solitude.  — 
And  I  have  fitted  up  some  chambers  there 
Looking  towards  the  golden  eastern  air. 
And  level  with  the  living  winds,  which  flow 
Like  waves  above  the  living  waves  below.  — 
I  have  sent  books  and  music  there,  and  all 
Those  instruments  with  which  high  spirits  call 
The  future  from  its  cradle,  and  the  past 
Out  of  its  grave,  and  make  the  present  last 
In  thoughts  and  joys  which  sleep,  but  cannot  die. 
Folded  within  their  own  eternity. 
[  223  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN  ITALY 

Our  simple  life  wants  little,  and  true  taste 
Hires  not  the  pale  drudge  Luxury,  to  waste 
The  scene  it  would  adorn,  and  therefore  still. 
Nature  with  all  her  children,  haunts  the  hill. 
The  ring-dove,  in  the  embowering  ivy,  yet 
Keeps  u]3  her  love-lament,  and  the  owls  flit 
Round  the  evening  tower,  and  the  young  stars  glance 
Between  the  quick  bats  in  their  twilight  dance ; 
The  spotted  deer  bask  in  the  fresh  moonlight 
Before  our  gate,  and  the  slow,  silent  night 
Is  measured  by  the  pants  of  their  calm  sleep. 
Be  this  our  home  in  Hfe,  and  when  years  heap 
Their  withered  hours,  like  leaves,  on  our  decay. 
Let  us  become  the  overhanging  day. 
The  living  soul  of  this  Elysian  isle. 
Conscious,  inseparable,  one.     Meanwhile 
We  two  will  rise,  and  sit,  and  walk  together, 
Under  the  roof  of  blue  Ionian  weather. 
And  wander  in  the  meadows,  or  ascend 
The  mossy  mountains,  where  the  blue  heavens  bend 
With  lightest  winds  to  touch  their  paramour ; 
Or  linger,  where  the  pebble-paven  shore. 
Under  the  quick,  faint  kisses  of  the  sea 
Trembles  and  sparkles  as  with  ecstasy,  — 
Possessing  and  possest  by  all  that  is 
Within  that  calm  circumference  of  bliss, 
And  by  each  other,  till  to  love  and  live 
Be  one  :  —  or,  at  the  noontide  hour,  arrive 
Where  some  old  cavern  hoar  seems  yet  to  keep 
The  moonlight  of  the  expired  night  asleep, 
[  224  ] 


THE   YEARS    1820   AND   1821 

Through  which  the  awakened  day  can  never  peep ; 
A  veil  for  our  seclusion,  close  as  Night's, 
Where  secure  sleep  may  kill  thine  innocent  lights ; 
Sleep,  the  fresh  dew  of  languid  love,  the  rain 
Whose  drops  quench  kisses  till  they  burn  agniu. 
And  we  will  talk,  until  thought's  melody 
Become  too  sweet  for  utterance,  and  it  die 
In  words,  to  live  again  in  looks,  which  dart 
With  thrilling  tone  into  the  voiceless  heart. 
Harmonising  silence  without  a  sound. 
Our  breath  shall  intermix,  our  bosoms  bound. 
And  our  veins  beat  together  ;  and  our  lips. 
With  other  eloquence  than  words,  eclipse 
The  soul  that  bums  between  them,  and  the  wells 
Which  boil  under  our  being's  inmost  cells. 
The  fountains  of  our  deepest  life,  shall  be 
Confused  in  passion's  golden  purity. 
As  mountain-springs  under  the  morning  sun. 
We  shall  become  the  same,  we  shall  be  one 
Spirit  within  two  frames,  oh !  wherefore  two  ? 
One  passion  in  twin-hearts,  which  grows  and  grew. 
Till  like  two  meteors  of  expanding  flame. 
Those  spheres  instinct  with  it  become  the  same, 
Touch,  mingle,  are  transfigured ;  ever  still 
Burning,  yet  ever  inconsumable  : 
In  one  another's  substance  finding  food. 
Like  flames  too  pure  and  light  and  unimbued 
To  nourish  their  bright  lives  vnth  baser  prey. 
Which  point  to  Heaven  and  cannot  pass  away : 
One  hope  within  two  wills,  one  will  beneath 
15  [  225  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN  ITALY 

Two  overshadowing  minds,  one  life,  one  death, 

One  heaven,  one  hell,  one  immortality. 

And  one  annihilation.     Woe  is  me  ! 

The  winged  words  on  which  my  soul  would  pierce 

Into  the  height  of  love's  rare  Universe, 

Are  chains  of  lead  around  its  flight  of  fire  — 

I  pant,  I  sink,  I  tremble,  I  expire ! 


TO 


I 
One  word  is  too  often  profaned 

For  me  to  profane  it, 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdained 

For  thee  to  disdain  it. 
One  hope  is  too  like  despair 

For  prudence  to  smother. 
And  pity  from  thee  more  dear 

Than  that  from  another. 

II 

I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love. 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above 

And  the  Heavens  reject  not. 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star. 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow. 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow  ? 

^  Perhaps  these  verses  may  be  taken  to  epitomize  the  whole  motive  of 
" Epipsychidiott "  and  similar  poems,  —  "the  desire  of  the  moth  for  the 
star,"  etc.,  — not  the  desire  of  possession,  but  of  worship.  —  Ed. 

[  226  ] 


S-  o 

re*     o 


THE  YEARS   1820  AND   1821 


TO 


Music,  when  soft  voices  die, 
Vibrates  in  the  memory ; 
Odours,  when  sweet  violets  sicken. 
Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken. 

Rose  leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead. 
Are  heaped  for  the  beloved's  bed  ; 
And  so  thy  thoughts,  when  thou  art  gone, 
Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 


ADONAIS  : 

AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHN  KEATS, 
AUTHOR  OF  "ENDYMION,"  "HYPERION,"  Etc. 

AiTTTjp  irpiv  jxkv  eXayMTres  6vt  tfjiolciv  'Ewos  * 
NCj/  Se  davuiv  \dfnr€L<i  "Eo-Trcpos  ev  (fiOi/xivoLS. 

Plato.2 

PKEFACE 
^dpfiaKOv  r]\de,  Btwv,  Trort  (tov  (rro/xa,  cfidpfxaKov  clSes. 
Jlws  rev  Tot?  ;)^€tAecrcri  7roTe8pa/x,e,  kovk  iyXvKavOr]  ; 

^  "  I  would  rather  have  written  Shelley's  '  Music,  when  soft  voices  die  ' 
than  all  that  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  ever  wrote,  together  with  all  of  their 
contemporaries,  excepting  Shakespeare."  —  Walter  Savage  Landor. 

2  Translated  by  Shelley  in  a  poem  called 

"  To  Stella." 
"  Thou  wert  the  Morning  Star  among  the  living 
Ere  thy  fair  light  had  fled  :  — 
Now,  having  died,  thou  art  as  Hesperus,  giving 
New  splendour  to  the  dead," 

[  227  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

Tts  0€  ;8poTOS  Tocr(TOVT(xiv  avufxepos,  r]  K€pd(rai  tol, 
'  H  oovvai  XaXiovTL  to  (fxip/xaKov ;   eK(f)vy€v  uiSdv. 

MoscHus,  Epitaph.  Bion.^ 

It  is  my  intention  to  subjoin  to  the  London  edition  of  this 
poem  a  criticism  upon  the  claims  of  its  lamented  object  to 
be  classed  among  the  writers  of  the  highest  genius  who 
have  adorned  our  age.  My  known  repugnance  to  the 
narrow  principles  of  taste  on  which  several  of  his  earlier 
compositions  were  modelled  prove  at  least  that  I  am  an 
impartial  judge.  I  consider  the  fragment  of  Hyperion,  as 
second  to  nothing  that  was  ever  produced  by  a  writer  of 
the  same  years. 

John  Keats   died   at   Eome   of  a  consumption^  in  his 

twenty-fourth  year,  on  the of 1821;    and  was 

buried  in  the  romantic  and  lonely  cemetery  of  the  Protes- 
tants in  that  city,  under  the  pyramid  which  is  the  tomb  of 
Cestius,  and  the  massy  walls  and  towers,  now  mouldering 
and  desolate,  which  formed  the  circuit  of  ancient  Eome. 
The  cemetery  is  an  open  space  among  the  ruins  covered  in 
Winter  with  violets  and  daisies.  It  might  make  one  in 
love  with  death,  to  think  that  one  should  be  buried  in  so 
sweet  a  place. 


'  Bion,  a  potion  came  to  tiy  mouth  which  soothed  like  a  potion. 
How  did  it  touch  thy  lips  and  not  change  its  bitter  to  sweetness  ? 
Who  so  savage  of  men  as  to  mix  or  give  thee  the  poison 
Even  as  thou  didst  speak  ?    Fled  he  not  from  the  voice  of  thy  singing  ?  " 
Tkanslation  of  Professor  Mahatft. 


[  228  ] 


THE   YEARS   1820  AND   1821 

ADONAIS 

I 

I  WEEP  for  Adonais  —  he  is  dead  ! 
Oh  weep  for  Adonais  !  though  our  tears 
Thaw  not  the  frost  which  binds  so  dear  a  head ! 
And  thou,  sad  Hour,  selected  from  all  years 
To  mourn  our  loss,  rouse  thy  obscure  compeers, 
And  teach  them  thine  own  sorrow  !     Say  :  "  With  me 
Died  Adonais ;  till  the  Future  dares 
Forget  the  Past,  his  fate  and  fame  shall  be 
An  echo  and  a  light  unto  eternity  !  " 

n 

Where  wert  thou,  mighty  Mother,  when  he  lay, 
When  thy  Son  lay,  pierced  by  the  shaft  which  flies 
In  darkness  ?  where  was  lorn  Urania 
When  Adonais  died  ?     With  veiled  eyes, 
'  Mid  listening  Echoes,  in  her  Paradise 
She  sate,  while  one,  with  soft  enamoured  breath. 
Rekindled  all  the  fading  melodies. 
With  which,  like  flowers  that  mock  the  corse  beneath. 
He  had  adorned  and  hid  the  coming  bulk  of  death. 

Ill 

Oh  weep  for  Adonais  —  he  is  dead  ! 
Wake,  melancholy  Mother,  wake  and  weep ! 
Yet  wherefore  ?     Quench  within  their  burning  bed 
Thy  fiery  tears,  and  let  thy  loud  heart  keep 
Like  his,  a  mute  and  uncomplaining  sleep ; 
[  229  ] 


WITH  SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

Tor  he  is  gone^  where  all  things  wise  and  fair 
Descend ;  —  oh,  dream  not  that  the  amorous  Deep 
"Will  yet  restore  him  to  the  vital  air; 
Death  feeds  on  his  mute  voice,  and  laughs  at  our  despair. 


TV 

Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  again  ! 
Lament  anew,  Urania  !  —  He  died. 
Who  was  the  Sire  of  an  immortal  strain, 
Blind,  old,  and  lonely,  when  his  country^s  pride. 
The  priest,  the  slave,  and  the  liberticide. 
Trampled  and  mocked  with  many  a  loathed  rite 
Of  lust  and  blood  ;  he  went,  unterrified. 
Into  the  gulf  of  death ;  but  his  clear  Sprite 
Yet  reigns  o'er  earth ;  the  third  among  the  sons  of  light. 


Most  musical  of  mourners,  M^eep  anew ! 
Not  all  to  that  bright  station  dared  to  climb ; 
And  happier  they  their  happiness  who  knew, 
Whose  tapers  yet  burn  through  that  night  of  time 
In  which  suns  perished  ;  others  more  sublime. 
Struck  by  the  envious  wrath  of  man  or  God, 
Have  sunk,  extinct  in  their  refulgent  prime ; 
And  some  yet  live,  treading  the  thorny  road. 
Which  leads,  through  toil  and  hate,  to  Fame's  serene  abode. 

[  230  ] 


2-  K 
-  G 


THE  YEARS  1820  AND  1821 

xxin 

Sorrow  and  fear 
So  struct,  so  roused,  so  rapt  Urania ; 
So  saddened  round  her  like  an  atmosphere 
Of  stormy  mist ;  so  swept  her  on  her  way, 
Even  to  the  mournful  place  where  Adonais  lay. 

XXV 

In  the  death  chamber  for  a  moment  Death 

Shamed  by  the  presence  of  that  living  Might 

Blushed  to  annihilation,  and  the  breath 

Revisited  those  lips,  and  life's  pale  light 

Flashed  through  those  limbs,  so  late  her  dear  delight. 

"  Leave  me  not  wild  and  drear  and  comfortless, 

As  silent  lightning  leaves  the  starless  night ! 

Leave  me  not !  "  cried  Urania  :  her  distress 
Eoused  Death :  Death  rose  and  smiled,  and  met  her  vain 
caress. 

XXVI 

"  Stay  yet  awhile  !  speak  to  me  once  again ! 

Kiss  me,  so  long  but  as  a  kiss  may  live ; 

And  in  my  heartless  breast  and  burning  brain 

That  word,  that  kiss  shall  all  thoughts  else  survive. 

With  food  of  saddest  memory  kept  alive, 

Now  thou  art  dead,  as  if  it  were  a  part 

Of  thee,  my  Adonais  !     I  would  give 

All  that  I  am  to  be  as  thou  now  art ! 
But  I  am  chained  to  Time,  and  cannot  thence  depart ! 
[  231  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

XXVII 

"  O  gentle  child^  beautiful  as  thou  wert, 
Why  didst  thou  leave  the  trodden  paths  of  men 
Too  soon^  and  with  weak  hands  though  mighty  heart 
Dare  the  unpastured  dragon  in  his  den  ? 
Defenceless  as  thou  wert,  oh  where  was  then 
"Wisdom  the  mirrored  shield,  or  scorn  the  spear  ? 
Or  hadst  thou  waited  the  full  cycle,  when 
Thy  spirit  should  have  filled  its  crescent  sphere 
The  monsters  of  lifers  waste  had  fled  from  thee  like  deer. 

XXVIII 

"  The  herded  wolves,  bold  only  to  pursue ; 
The  obscene  ravens,  clamorous  o'er  the  dead ; 
The  vultures  to  the  conqueror's  banner  true 
Who  feed  where  Desolation  first  has  fed. 
And  whose  wings  rain  contagion  ;  —  how  they  fled 
When  like  Apollo,  from  his  golden  bow, 
The  Pythian  of  the  age  one  arrow  sped 
And  smiled !  —  The  spoilers  tempt  no  second  blow, 
They  fawn  on  the  proud  feet  that  spurn  them  lying  low. 

XXIX 

"  The  sun  comes  forth,  and  many  reptiles  spawn ; 
He  sets,  and  each  ephemeral  insect  then 
Is  gathered  into  death  without  a  dawn. 
And  the  immortal  stars  awake  again ; 
So  is  it  in  the  world  of  living  men  : 
[  232  ] 


THE  YEARS   1820   AND   1821 

A  godlike  mind  soars  forthj  in  its  delight 
Making  earth  bare  and  veiling  heaven,  and  when 
It  sinks,  the  swarms  that  dimmed  or  shared  its  light 
Leave  to  its  kindred  lamps  the  spirit's  awful  night." 

XXX 

Thus  ceased  she :  and  the  mountain  shepherds  came. 
Their  garlands  sere,  their  magic  mantles  rent ; 
The  Pilgrim  of  Eternity,^  whose  fame 
Over  his  living  head  like  Heaven  is  bent. 
An  early  but  enduring  monument, 
Came,  veiling  all  the  lightnings  of  his  song 
In  sorrow ;  from  her  wilds  lerne  sent 
The  sweetest  lyrist  of  her  saddest  wrong,'-^ 
And  love  taught  grief  to  fall  like  music  from  his  tongue. 

XXXI 

Midst  others  of  less  note,  came  one  frail  Form,^ 
A  phantom  among  men  ;  companionless 
As  the  last  cloud  of  an  expiring  storm 
"Whose  thunder  is  its  knell ;  he,  as  I  guess. 
Had  gazed  on  Nature^s  naked  loveliness, 
Actfeon-like,  and  now  he  fled  astray 
"With  feeble  steps  o'er  the  world's  wilderness. 
And  his  own  thoughts,  along  that  rugged  way. 
Pursued,    like    raging    hounds,    their    father    and    their 
prey. 

1  Byron.  2  ]\];oore.  ^  Shelley. 

[   233   ] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN   ITALY 

XXXII 

A  pardlike  Spirit  beautiful  and  swift  — 
A  Love  in  desolation  masked  ;  —  a  Power 
Girt  round  with  weakness  ;  —  it  can  scarce  uplift 
The  weight  of  the  superincumbent  hour ; 
It  is  a  dying  lamp,  a  falling  shower, 
A  breaking  billow  ;  —  even  whilst  we  speak 
Is  it  not  broken  ?     On  the  withering  flower 
The  killing  sun  smiles  brightly :  on  a  cheek 
The  life  can  burn  in  blood,  even  while  the  heart  may  break. 

XXXIII 
His  head  was  bound  with  pansies  overblown, 
And  faded  violets,  white,  and  pied,  and  blue ; 
And  a  light  spear  topped  with  a  cypress  cone, 
Round  whose  rude  shaft  dark  ivy  tresses  grew 
Yet  dripping  with  the  forest's  noonday  dew, 
Yibrated,  as  the  ever-beating  heart 
Shook  the  weak  hand  that  grasped  it ;  of  that  crew 
He  came  the  last,  neglected  and  apart : 
A  herd-abandoned  deer  struck  by  the  hunter's  dart. 

XXXIV 

All  stood  aloof,  and  at  his  partial  moan 
Smiled  through  their  tears ;  well  knew  that  gentle  band 
Who  in  another's  fate  now  wept  his  own ; 
As  in  the  accents  of  an  unknown  land. 
He  sung  new  sorrow,  sad  Urania  scanned 
[  234  ] 


T)EH1ND  Shelley's 
house  ill  Pisa. 


—  See  Letter  from  Pisa,  p.  248. 


THE   YEARS   1820  AND   1821 

The  Stranger's  mien,  and  murmured  :    "  Who  art  thou  ?  " 
He  answered  not,  but  with  a  sudden  hand 
Made  bare  his  branded  and  ensanguined  brow, 
Which  was  like  Cain's  or  Christ's  —  oh,  that  it  should 
be  so ! 

XXXV 

What  softer  voice  is  hushed  over  the  dead  ?  ^ 
Athwart  what  brow  is  that  dark  mantle  thrown  ? 
What  form  leans  sadly  o'er  the  white  deathbed. 
In  mockery  of  monumental  stone. 
The  heavy  heart  heaving  without  a  moan  ? 
If  it  be  He,  who,  gentlest  of  the  wise. 
Taught,  soothed,  loved,  honoured  the  departed  one ; 
Let  me  not  vex,  with  inharmonious  sighs. 
The  silence  of  that  heart's  accepted  sacrifice. 

XXXVI 

Our  Adonais  has  drunk  poison  —  oh  ! 
What  deaf  and  viperous  murderer  could  crown 
Life's  early  cup  with  such  a  draught  of  woe  ? 
The  nameless  worm  would  now  itself  disown : 
It  felt,  yet  could  escape  the  magic  tone 
Whose  prelude  held  all  envy,  hate,  and  wrong, 
But  what  was  howling  in  one  breast  alone. 
Silent  with  expectation  of  the  song. 
Whose  master's  hand  is  cold,  whose  silver  lyre  unstrung. 

1  The  doubt  formerly  existing  about  this  allusion  seems  to  be  settled 
positively  by  a  letter  from  Browning  to  Forman,  July  2,  1877  :  "  Certainly 
Leigh  Hunt  is  alluded  to  iu  the  thirty -fifth  stanza  of  '  Adonais.'  I  heard 
so  from  John  Forster,  an  earlier  friend  of  his.  The  '  dark  mantle  thrown 
athwart  the  brow '  is  a  characteristic  touch." 

[  235  ] 


WITH  SHELLEY   IN  ITALY 

XXXVII 

Live  thou,  whose  infamy  is  not  thj  fame  ! 
Live  !  fear  no  heavier  chastisement  from  me. 
Thou  noteless  blot  on  a  remembered  name ! 
But  be  thyseK,  and  know  thyseK  to  be  ! 
And  ever  at  thy  season  be  thou  free 
To  spill  the  venom  when  thy  fangs  overflow  : 
Remorse  and  Self-contempt  shall  cling  to  thee  j 
Hot  Shame  shall  burn  upon  thy  secret  brow, 
And  like  a  beaten  hound  tremble  thou  shalt  —  as  now. 

XXXVIII 

Nor  let  us  weep  that  our  delight  is  fled 
Far  from  these  carrion  kites  that  scream  below ; 
He  wakes  or  sleeps  with  the  enduring  dead  ; 
Thou  canst  not  soar  where  he  is  sitting  now.  — 
Dust  to  the  dust !  but  the  pure  spirit  shall  ilow 
Back  to  the  burning  fountain  whence  it  came, 
A  portion  of  the  Eternal,  which  must  glow 
Through  time  and  change,  unquenchably  the  same, 
Whilst  thy  cold  embers  choke  the  sordid  hearth  of  shame. 

XXXIX 

Peace,  peace  !   he  is  not  dead,  he  doth  not  sleep  — 
He  hath  awakened  from  the  dream  of  life  — 
'Tis  we  who,  lost  in  stormy  visions,  keep 
With  phantoms  an  unprofitable  strife, 
[  236  ] 


THE  YEARS  1820   AND  1821 

And  iu  mad  trance,  strike  with  our  spirit's  knife 
Invulnerable  nothings.  —  JFe  decay 
Like  corpses  in  a  charnel ;  fear  and  grief 
Convulse  us  and  consume  us  day  by  day, 
And  cold  hopes  swarm  like  worms  within  our  living  clay. 


XL 

He  has  outsoared  the  shadow  of  our  night ; 
Envy  and  calumny  and  hate  and  pain, 
And  that  unrest  which  men  miscall  delight, 
Can  touch  him  not  and  torture  not  again; 
Prom  the  contagion  of  the  world's  slow  stain 
He  is  secure,  and  now  can  never  mourn 
A  heart  grown  cold,  a  head  grown  grey  in  vain ; 
Nor,  when  the  spirit's  self  has  ceased  to  burn. 
With  sparkless  ashes  load  an  unlamented  urn. 


XLI 

He  lives,  he  wakes  —  't  is  Death  is  dead,  not  he ; 
Mourn  not  for  Adonais.  —  Thou  young  Dawn 
Turn  all  thy  dew  to  splendour,  for  from  thee 
The  spirit  thou  lamentest  is  not  gone ; 
Ye  caverns  and  ye  forests,  cease  to  moan ! 
Cease,  ye  faint  flowers  and  fountains,  and  thou  Air 
Which  like  a  mourning  veil  thy  scarf  hadst  thrown 
O'er  the  abandoned  Earth,  now  leave  it  bare 
Even  to  the  joyous  stars  which  smile  on  its  despair  1 

[  237  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN  ITALY 

XLII 

He  is  made  one  with  Nature  :  there  is  heard 
His  voice  in  all  her  rausic;  from  the  moan 
Of  thunder  to  the  song  of  night's  sweet  bird ; 
He  is  a  presence  to  be  felt  and  known 
In  darkness  and  in  light,  from  herb  and  stone, 
Spreading  itself  where'er  that  Power  may  move 
Which  has  withdrawn  his  being  to  its  own ; 
Which  wields  the  world  with  never  wearied  love. 
Sustains  it  from  beneath,  and  kindles  it  above. 

XLIII 

He  is  a  portion  of  the  loveliness 
Which  once  he  made  more  lovely :  he  doth  bear 
His  part,  while  the  one  Spirit's  plastic  stress 
Sweeps  through  the  dull  dense  world,  compelling  there 
All  new  successions  to  the  forms  they  wear ; 
Torturing  th'  unwilling  dross  that  checks  its  flight 
To  its  own  likeness,  as  each  mass  may  bear ; 
And  bursting  in  its  beauty  and  its  might 
From  trees  and  beasts  and  men  into  the  Heaven's  light. 

XLIV 

The  splendours  of  the  firmament  of  time 
May  be  eclipsed,  but  are  extinguished  not ; 
Like  stars  to  their  appointed  height  they  climb 
And  death  is  a  low  mist  which  cannot  blot 
The  brightness  it  may  veil.     When  lofty  thought 
[  238  ] 


1^-   S     "S 


cs    a    S 
S    2"  ? 


:^  ^  'X, 

^    D"    r^ 


THE   YEARS   1820   AND   1821 

Lifts  a  young  heart  above  its  mortal  lair, 
And  love  and  life  contend  in  it,  for  what 
Shall  be  its  earthly  doom,  the  dead  live  there 
And  move  like  winds  of  light  on  dark  and  stormy  air. 


XLV 

The  inheritors  of  unfulfilled  renown 
Rose  from  their  thrones,  built  beyond  mortal  thought. 
Far  in  the  Unapparent.     Chatterton 
Rose  pale,  his  solemn  agony  had  not 
Yet  faded  from  him ;  Sidney,  as  he  fought 
And  as  he  fell  and  as  he  lived  and  loved 
Sublimely  mild,  a  Spirit  without  spot. 
Arose ;  and  Lucan,  by  his  death  approved : 
Oblivion  as  they  rose  shrank  like  a  thing  reproved. 


XL  VI 

And  many  more,  whose  names  on  earth  are  dark 
But  whose  transmitted  effluence  cannot  die 
So  long  as  fire  outlives  the  parent  spark. 
Rose,  robed  in  dazzling  immortality. 
"  Thou  art  become  as  one  of  us/''  they  cry, 
"  It  was  for  thee  yon  kingless  sphere  has  long 
Swung  blind  in  unascended  majesty, 
Silent  alone  amid  an  Heaven  of  Song. 
Assume  thy  winged  throne,  thou  Vesper  of  our  throng 

[  239  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN  ITALY 

XLVII 

Who  mourns  for  Adonais  ?  Oh  come  forth 
Fond  wretch  !  and  know  tliyself  and  him  aright. 
Clasp  with  thy  panting  soul  the  pendulous  earth ; 
As  from  a  centre,  dart  thy  spirit^s  light 
Beyond  all  worlds,  until  its  spacious  might 
Satiate  the  void  circumference  :  then  shrink 
Even  to  a  point  within  our  day  and  night ; 
And  keep  thy  heart  light  lest  it  make  thee  sink 
When  hope  has  kindled  hope,  and  lured  thee  to  the  brink. 

XLVIII 

Or  go  to  Rome,  which  is  the  sepulchre 
Oh  !  not  of  him,  but  of  our  joy  :  ^tis  nought 
That  ages,  empires,  and  religions  there 
Lie  buried  in  the  ravage  they  have  wrought ; 
For  such  as  he  can  lend,  —  they  borrow  not 
Glory  from  those  who  made  the  world  their  prey ; 
And  he  is  gathered  to  the  kings  of  thought 
Who  waged  contention  with  their  time's  decay, 
And  of  the  past  are  all  that  cannot  pass  away. 

XLIX 

Go  thou  to  Rome,  —  at  once  the  Paradise, 
The  grave,  the  city,  and  the  wilderness ; 
A.nd  where  its  wrecks  like  shattered  mountains  rise, 
And  flowering  weeds,  and  fragrant  copses  dress 
The  bones  of  Desolation's  nakedness 
[  240  ] 


THE   YEARS   1820   AND   1821 

Pass,  till  the  Spirit  of  the  spot  shall  lead 
Thy  footsteps  to  a  slope  of  green  access 
Where,  like  an  infant's  smile,  over  the  dead 
A  light  of  laughing  flowers  along  the  grass  is  spread. 


And  grey  walls  moulder  round,  on  which  dull  Time 
Feeds,  like  slow  fire  upon  a  hoary  brand ; 
And  one  keen  pyramid  with  wedge  sublime, 
Pavilioning  the  dust  of  him  who  planned 
This  refuge  for  his  memory,  doth  stand 
Like  flame  transformed  to  marble ;  and  beneath, 
A  field  is  spread,  on  which  a  newer  band 
Have  pitched  in  Heaven's  smile  their  camp  of  death 
Welcoming  him  we  lose  with  scarce  extinguished  breath. 


LI 

Here  pause :  these  graves  are  all  too  young  ^  as  yet 
To  have  outgrown  the  sorrow  which  consigned 
Its  charge  to  each ;  and  if  the  seal  is  set 
Here,  on  one  fountain  of  a  mourning  mind, 
Break  it  not  thou !  too  surely  shalt  thou  find 
Thine  own  well  full,  if  thou  returnest  home, 
Of  tears  and  gall.     Prom  the  world's  bitter  wind 
Seek  shelter  in  the  shadow  of  the  tomb. 
What  Adonais  is,  why  fear  we  to  become  ? 

1  Shelley's  infant  son  William  had  been  buried  in  this  ground  less  than 
two  years  before. 

16  [  241  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY    IN   ITALY 

LII 

The  One  remains,  the  many  change  and  pass ; 
Heaven's  light  for  ever  shines,  Earth's  shadows  fly  ', 
Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-coloured  glass, 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  Eternity, 
Until  Death  tramples  it  to  fragments.  —  Die 
If  thou  wouldst  be  with  that  which  thou  dost  seek ! 
Follow  where  all  is  fled  !  — Rome's  azure  sky, 
Elowers,  ruins,  statues,  music,  —  words  are  weak 
The  glory  they  transfuse  with  fitting  truth  to  speak. 

LIII 

Why  linger,  why  turn  back,  why  shrink,  my  heart  ? 
Thy  hopes  are  gone  before :  from  all  things  here 
They  have  departed ;  thou  shouldst  now  depart ! 
A  light  is  past  from  the  revolving  year. 
And  man,  and  woman ;  and  what  still  is  dear 
Attracts  to  crush,  repels  to  make  thee  wither. 
The  soft  sky  smiles,  —  the  low  wind  whispers  near; 
'T  is  Adonais  calls !  oh,  hasten  thither. 
No  more  let  Life  divide  what  Death  can  join  together. 

LIV 

That  Light  whose  smile  kindles  the  Universe, 
That  Beauty  in  which  all  things  work  and  move, 
That  Benediction  which  the  eclipsing  Curse 
Of  birth  can  quench  not,  that  sustaining  Love 
Which  through  the  web  of  being  blindly  wove 
[  242  ] 


►  HOTESPANT  CEMETEUY  and 

I'viiiiiiid  of  Cestius  at  Rome. 


"0/;^  kf'i'ti  pyramid  ivlth  loedf/e  sublime. 
Pavilioning  the  dust  of  him  ivho  planned 
This  refuge  for  his  memory,  doth  stand 
Like  fl.ame  transformed  to  marhle." 

—  Adonais,  p.  241. 
Compare  witli  Shelley's  prose  description,  Letter  from  Naples,  p.  73. 


THE  YEARS  1820  AND  1821 

By  man  and  beast  and  earth  and  air  and  sea. 
Burns  bright  or  dim,  as  each  are  mirrors  of 
The  fire  for  which  all  thirst ;  now  beams  on  me. 
Consuming  the  last  clouds  of  cold  mortality. 

LV 

The  breath  whose  might  I  have  invoked  in  song 
Descends  on  me ;  my  spirit^s  bark  is  driven, 
Tar  from  the  shore,  far  from  the  trembling  throng 
Whose  sails  were  never  to  the  tempest  given ; 
The  massy  earth  and  sphered  skies  are  riven  ! 
I  am  borne  darkly,  fearfully,  afar ; 
Whilst  burning  through  the  inmost  veil  of  Heaven, 
The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star, 
Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  Eternal  are. 


TO    MRS.  SHELLEY 
(Bagni  di  Pisa) 

Florence,  Aug.  1,  1821. 
...  I  spent  three  hours  this  morning  principally  in 
the  contemplation  of  the  Niobe  and  of  a  favourite  Apollo  ; 
all  worldly  thoughts  and  cares  seem  to  vanish  from  before 
the  sublime  emotions  such  spectacles  create;  and  I  am 
deeply  impressed  with  the  great  difference  of  happiness 
enjoyed  by  those  who  live  at  a  distance  from  these  incar- 
nations of  all  that  the  finest  minds  have  conceived  of 
beauty,  and  those  who  can  resort  to  their  company  at 
pleasure.  What  should  we  think  if  we  were  forbidden  to 
[  243  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

read  the  great  writers  who  have  left  us  their  works  ?  And 
yet  to  be  forbidden  to  live  at  Florence  or  Rome  is  an  evil 
of  the  same  kind,  of  scarcely  less  magnitude. 


TO  MRS.   SHELLEY 
(Pisa) 

Ravenna,  August  8, 1821. 

After  having  sent  my  letter  to  the  post  yesterday,  I 
went  to  see  some  of  the  antiquities  of  this  place ;  which 
appear  to  be  remarkable.  This  city  was  once  of  vast 
extent,  and  the  traces  of  its  remains  are  to  be  found  more 
than  four  miles  from  the  gate  of  the  modern  town.  The 
sea,  which  once  came  close  to  it,  has  now  retired  to  the 
distance  of  four  miles,  leaving  a  melancholy  extent  of 
marshes,  interspersed  with  patches  of  cultivation,  and 
towards  the  sea  shore  with  pine  forests,  which  have 
followed  the  retrocession  of  the  Adriatic,  and  the  roots 
of  which  are  actually  washed  by  its  waves.  The  level  of 
the  sea  and  of  this  tract  of  country  correspond  so  nearly, 
that  a  ditch  dug  to  a  few  feet  in  depth  is  immediately 
filled  up  with  sea  water.  All  the  ancient  buildings  have 
been  choked  up  to  the  height  of  from  five  to  twenty  feet 
by  the  deposit  of  the  sea,  and  of  the  inundations,  which 
are  frequent  in  the  Winter.  I  went  in  Lord  Byron's 
carriage,  first  to  the  Chiesa  San  Yitale,  which  is  certainly 
one  of  the  most  ancient  churches  in  Italy.  It  is  a  ro- 
tunda supported  upon  buttresses  aud  pilasters  of  white 
marble;  the  ill  eifect  of  which  is  somewhat  relieved  bj  an 
[  244  ] 


THE    YEARS   1820   AND   1821 

interior  row  of  columns.  The  dome  is  very  high  and 
narro\y.  The  whole  church,  in  spite  of  the  elevation  of 
the  soil,  is  very  high  for  its  breadth,  and  is  of  a  very 
peculiar  and  striking  construction.  In  the  section  of  one 
of  the  large  tables  of  marble  with  which  the  church  is 
lined,  they  showed  me  \X\^  perfect  figure,  as  perfect  as  if  it 
had  been  painted,  of  a  Capuchin  friar,  which  resulted 
merely  from  the  shadings  and  the  position  of  the  stains 
in  the  marble.  This  is  what  may  be  called  a  pure  antici- 
pated cognition  of  a  Capuchin. 

I  then  went  to  the  tomb  of  Theodosius,^  which  has  now 
been  dedicated  to  the  Virgin,  without  however  any  change 
in  its  original  appearance.  It  is  about  a  mile  from  the 
present  city.  This  building  is  more  than  half  overwhelmed 
by  the  elevated  soil,  although  a  portion  of  the  lower  story 
has  been  excavated,  and  is  filled  with  brackish  and  stink- 
ing waters,  and  a  sort  of  vaporous  darkness,  and  troops  of 
prodigious  frogs.  It  is  a  remarkable  piece  of  architecture, 
and  without  belonging  to  a  period  when  the  ancient  taste 
yet  survived,  bears  nevertheless  a  certain  impression  of 
that  taste.  It  consists  of  two  stories;  the  lower  sup- 
ported on  Doric  arches,  and  pilasters,  and  a  simple  entabla- 
ture. The  other  circular  within,  and  polygonal  outside, 
and  roofed  with  one  single  mass  of  ponderous  stone,  for 
it  is  evidently  one,  and  Heaven  alone  knows  how  they 
contrived  to  lift  it  to  that  height.  It  is  a  sort  of  flattish 
dome,  rough-wrought  within  by  the  chisel,  from  which 
the  Northern  conquerors  tore   the   plates  of  silver   that 

1  An  error  on  Shelley's  part.  This  is  the  tomb  of  Theodoric  the  Great, 
not  Theodosius,  —  Ed. 

[  245  ] 


WITH  SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

adorned  it^  and  polished  without,  with  things  like  handles 
appended  to  it,  which  were  also  wrought  out  of  the  solid 
stone,  and  to  which  I  suppose  the  ropes  were  applied  to 
draw  it  ujj.  You  ascend  externally  into  the  second  story 
by  a  flight  of  stone  steps,  which  are  modern. 

The  next  place  I  went  to  was  a  church  called  la  Chiesa 
di  Sant'  Apollinare,  which  is  a  basilica,  and  built  by 
one,  I  forget  whom,  of  the  Christian  Emperors;  it  is  a 
long  church,  with  a  roof  like  a  barn,  and  supported  by 
twenty-four  columns  of  the  finest  marble,  with  an  altar 
of  jasper,  and  four  columns  of  jasper  and  giallo  antico, 
supporting  the  roof  of  the  tabernacle,  which  are  said  to 
be  of  immense  value.  It  is  something  like  that  church  (I 
forget  the  name  of  it)  we  saw  at  'S<,ome,fiiore  delle  mure} 
I  suppose  the  emperor  stole  these  columns,  which  seem 
not  at  all  to  belong  to  the  place  they  occupy.  Within  the 
city,  near  the  church  of  San  Vitale,  there  is  to  be  seen  the 
tomb  of  the  Empress  Galla  Placidia,  daughter  of  Theo- 
dosius  the  Great,  together  with  those  of  her  husband  Con- 
stantius,  her  brother  Honorius,  and  her  son  Yalentinian  — 
all  emperors.  The  tombs  are  massy  cases  of  marble, 
adorned  with  rude  and  tasteless  sculpture  of  lambs,  and 
other  Christian  emblems,  with  scarcely  a  trace  of  the 
antique.  It  seems  to  have  been  one  of  the  first  eflFects 
of  the  Christian  religion,  to  destroy  the  power  of  produc- 
ing beauty  in  art.  These  tombs  are  placed  in  a  sort  of 
vaulted  chamber,  wrought  over  with  rude  mosaic,  which 
is  said  to  have  been  built  in  1300.  I  have  yet  seen  no 
more  of  Eavenna. 

1  St.  Paul  Without  the  WaUs. 

[  246  ] 


THE   YEARS   1820   AND   1821 

TO  MAEY  SHELLEY  AT  PISA 

Ravenna,  August  16,  1821. 

What  think  you  of  remaining  at  Pisa  ?  The  Williamses 
would  probably  be  induced  to  stay  there  if  we  did ;  Hunt 
would  certainly  stay,  at  least  this  Winter,  near  us,  should 
he  emigrate  at  all ;  Lord  Byron  and  his  Italian  friends 
would  remain  quietly  there;  and  Lord  Byron  has  cer- 
tainly a  great  regard  for  us  —  the  regard  of  such  a  man 
is  worth  —  some  of  the  tribute  we  must  pay  to  the  base 
passions  of  humanity  in  any  intercourse  with  those  within 
their  circle ;  he  is  better  worth  it  than  those  on  whom  we 
bestow  it  from  mere  custom. 

My  greatest  content  would  be  utterly  to  desert  all  human 
society.  I  would  retire  with  you  and  our  child  to  a  soli- 
tary island  in  the  sea,  would  build  a  boat,  and  shut  upon 
my  retreat  the  flood-gates  of  the  world.  I  would  read  no 
reviews,  and  talk  with  no  authors.  If  I  dared  trust  my  im- 
agination, it  would  tell  me  that  there  are  one  or  two  chosen 
companions  beside  yourself  whom  I  should  desire.  But  to 
this  I  would  not  listen  —  where  two  or  three  are  gathered 
together,  the  devil  is  among  them.  And  good,  far  more 
than  evil  impulses,  love,  far  more  than  hatred,  has  been  to 
me,  except  as  you  have  been  its  object,  the  source  of  all 
sorts  of  mischief.  So  on  this  plan,  I  would  be  alone,  and 
would  devote  either  to  oblivion  or  to  future  generations, 
the  overflowings  of  a  mind  which,  timely  withdrawn  from 
[  247  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

the  contagion,  should  be  kept  fit  for  no  baser  object.     But 
this  it  does  not  appear  that  we  shall  do. 

The  other  side  of  the  alternative  (for  a  medium  ought 
not  to  be  adopted)  is  to  form  for  ourselves  a  society  of 
our  own  class,  as  much  as  possible  in  intellect,  or  in  feel- 
ings ;  and  to  connect  ourselves  with  the  interests  of  that 
society.  Our  roots  never  struck  so  deeply  as  at  Pisa,  and 
the  transplanted  tree  flourishes  not.  People  who  lead  the 
lives  which  we  led  until  last  Winter,  are  like  a  family 
of  Wahabee  Arabs,  pitching  their  tent  in  the  midst  of 
London.  We  must  do  one  thing  or  the  other  —  for 
yourself,  for  our  child,  for  our  existence. 


TO  MR.  JOHN  GISBORNE 
(London) 

Pisa,  October  22, 1821. 

We  have  furnished  a  house  at  Pisa,  and  mean  to  make 
it  our  headquarters.  I  shall  get  all  my  books  out,  and 
entrench  myself  like  a  spider  in  a  web.  If  you  can  assist 
P.^  in  sending  them  to  Leghorn,  you  would  do  me  an 
especial  favour;  but  do  not  buy  me  Calderon,  Faust,  or 
Kant,  as  H.  S.^  promises  to  send  them  me  from  Paris, 
where  I  suppose  you  had  not  time  to  procure  them.  Any 
other  books  you  or  Henry  think  would  accord  with  my 
design,  Oilier  will  furnish  you  with. 

I  should  like  very  much  to  hear  what  is  said  of  my 
Adonais,  and  you  would  oblige  me  by  cutting  out,  or 
^  Peacock.  ^  Horace  Smith. 

[  248  ] 


bj  o 


S"  '^   ^  ^     ' 

~  S    s^  s  ti< 

S^  •^  S    2    s 

^  a    ^    g    a- 

^-  2:  <»    S    "^ 


a    a 


2    o    s    S 
Si.  ^    ^    s 


3.  (i 


°    2 

2   ^ 


THE   YEARS   1820   AND   1821 

making  Oilier  cut  out,  any  respectable  criticism  on  it,  and 
sending  it  me;  you  know  I  do  not  mind  a  crown  or 
two  in  postage.  The  Epipsycliidion  is  a  mystery;  as  to 
real  flesh  and  blood,  you  know  that  I  do  not  deal  in  those 
articles ;  you  might  as  well  go  to  a  gin-shop  for  a  leg  of 
mutton,  as  expect  anything  human  or  earthly  from  me. 
I  desired  Oilier  not  to  circulate  this  piece  except  to  the 
avveroi,  and  even  they,  it  seems,  are  inclined  to  approxi- 
mate me  to  the  circle  of  a  servant-girl  and  her  sweetheart. 
But  I  intend  to  write  a  Symposium  of  my  own  to  set  all 
this  right. 

I  read  the  Greek  dramatists  and  Plato  for  ever.  You 
are  right  about  Antigone ;  how  sublime  a  picture  of  a 
woman !  and  what  think  you  of  the  choruses,  and  espe- 
cially the  lyrical  complaints  of  the  godlike  victim?  and 
the  menaces  of  Tiresias,  and  their  rapid  fulfilment  ?  Some 
of  us  have,  in  a  prior  existence,  been  in  love  with  Antigone, 
and  that  makes  us  find  no  full  content  in  any  mortal  tie. 

THE   BOAT  ON  THE   SEECHIO 

Our  boat  is  asleep  on  Serchio^s  stream, 

Its  sails  are  folded  like  thoughts  in  a  dream. 

The  helm  sways  idly,  hither  and  thither ; 

Dominic,  the  boatman,  has  brought  the  mast. 
And  the  oars  and  the  sails ;  but  ^t  is  sleeping  fast. 
Like  a  beast,  unconscious  of  its  tether. 

The  stars  burnt  out  in  the  pale  blue  air, 
And  the  thin  white  moon  lay  withering  there, 
[  249  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN   ITALY 

To  tower,  and  cavern,  and  rift,  and  tree, 
The  owl  and  the  bat  fled  drowsily. 
Day  had  kindled  the  dewy  woods. 

And  the  rocks  above  and  the  stream  below, 
And  the  vapours  in  their  multitudes, 

And  the  Apennine's  shroud  of  Summer  snow, 
And  clothed  with  light  of  aery  gold 
The  mists  in  their  eastern  caves  uprolled. 

Day  had  awakened  all  things  that  be, 

The  lark  and  the  thrush  and  the  swallow  free, 

And  the  milkmaid's  song  and  the  mower's  scythe, 
And  the  matin-bell  and  the  mountain  bee  : 
Tire-flies  were  quenched  on  the  dewy  corn. 

Glow-worms  went  out  on  the  river's  brim. 

Like  lamps  which  a  student  forgets  to  trim  : 
The  beetle  forgot  to  wind  his  horn. 

The  crickets  were  still  in  the  meadow  and  hill : 
Like  a  flock  of  rooks  at  a  farmer's  gun 
Night's  dreams  and  terrors,  every  one. 
Fled  from  the  brains  which  are  their  prey 
From  the  lamp's  death  to  the  morning  ray. 

All  rose  to  do  the  task  He  set  to  each, 

Who  shaped  us  to  his  ends  and  not  our  own  ; 

The  million  rose  to  learn,  and  one  to  teach 
What  none  yet  ever  knew  or  can  be  known. 
And  many  rose  .  .  . 

Whose  woe  was  such  that  fear  became  desire;  — 

Melchior  and  Lionel  were  not  among  those  ;  ^ 

1  These  names   doubtless   stand   to   signify  Williams    (Melchjor)    and 
Shelley  (Lionel). 

[  250  ] 


1=;  'z.  — 


^    o 


THE   YEARS   1820   AND   1821 

They  from  the  throng  of  men  had  stepped  aside. 
And  made  their  home  under  the  green  hillside. 
It  -was  that  hill,  whose  intervening  brow 

Screens  Lucca  from  the  Pisan's  envious  eye,i 
■Which  the  circumfluous  plain  waving  below. 

Like  a  wide  lake  of  green  fertility, 
With  streams  and  fields  and  marshes  bare. 

Divides  from  the  far  Apennines  —  which  lie 
Islanded  in  the  immeasurable  air. 

"  What  think  you,  as  she  lies  in  her  green  cove. 

Our  little  sleeping  boat  is  dreaming  of  ?  " 

"  If  morning  dreams  are  true,  why  I  should  guess 

That  she  was  dreaming  of  our  idleness. 

And  of  the  miles  of  watery  way 

We  should  have  led  her  by  this  time  of  day."  — 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Lionel, 
"  Give  care  to  the  winds,  they  can  bear  it  well 
About  yon  poplar  tops  ;  and  see 
The  white  clouds  are  driving  merrily. 

And  the  stars  we  miss  this  morn  will  light 

More  willingly  our  return  to-night.  — 

How  it  whistles.  Dominions  long  black  hair  ! 

List  my  dear  fellow  ;  the  breeze  blows  fair  : 

Hear  how  it  sings  into  the  air." 

"  Of  us  and  of  our  lazy  motions," 
Impatiently  said  Melchior, 

"  If  I  can  guess  a  boat's  emotions; 

And  how  we  ought,  two  hours  before. 

The  mountain  San  Giuliano  as  described  by  Dante,  Inferno,  canto  33. 

[  251  3 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

To  have  been  the  devil  knows  where." 

And  then,  in  such  transalpine  Tuscan 

As  would  have  killed  a  Della-Cruscan, 

•  ••••• 

So,  Lionel  according  to  his  art 

Weaving  his  idle  words,  Melchior  said  : 

"  She  dreams  that  we  are  not  yet  out  of  bed ; 

We  ^11  put  a  soul  into  her,  and  a  heart 

Which  like  a  dove  chased  by  a  dove  shall  beat." 

"  Ay,  heave  the  ballast  overboard, 
And  stow  the  eatables  in  the  aft  locker." 
"  Would  not  this  keg  be  best  a  little  lowered  ?  " 
"  No,  now  all 's  right."     "  Those  bottles  of  warm  tea  - 
(Give  me  some  straw)  —  must  be  stowed  tenderly ; 
Such  as  we  used,  in  Summer  after  six. 
To  cram  in  greatcoat  pockets,  and  to  mix 
Hard  eggs  and  radishes  and  rolls  at  Eton, 
And,  couched  on  stolen  hay  in  those  green  harbours 
Farmers  called  gaps,  and  we  schoolboys  called  arbours, 
Would  feast  till  eight." 

•  ••••• 

With  a  bottle  in  one  hand. 
As  if  his  very  soul  were  at  a  stand, 
Lionel  stood  —  when  Melchior  brought  him  steady  :  — 
"  Sit  at  the  helm  — fasten  this  sheet  —  all  ready  !  " 

The  chain  is  loosed,  the  sails  are  spread. 

The  living  breath  is  fresh  behind, 
As  with  dews  and  sunrise  fed. 

Comes  the  laughing  morning  wind ;  — 
[  252  ] 


THE   YEARS   1820  AND   1821 

The  sails  are  full^  the  boat  makes  head 
Against  the  Serchio's  torrent  fierce. 
Then  flags  with  intermitting  course, 

And  hangs  upon  the  wave,  and  stems 

The  tempest  of  the  .  .  . 
"Which  fervid  from  its  mountain  source 
Shallow,  smooth,  and  strong  doth  come,  — 
Swift  as  fire,  tempestuously 
It  sweeps  into  the  affrighted  sea  ; 
In  morning^s  smile  its  eddies  coil. 
Its  billows  sparkle,  toss,  and  boil, 
Torturing  all  its  quiet  light 
Into  columns  fierce  and  bright. 

The  Serchio,  twisting  forth 
Between  the  marble  barriers  which  it  clove 

At  Ripafratta,  leads  through  the  dread  chasm 
The  wave  that  died  the  death  which  lovers  love, 

Livmg  in  what  it  sought.     As  if  this  spasm 
Had  not  yet  passed,  the  toppling  mountains  cling, 

But  the  clear  stream  in  full  enthusiasm 
Pours  itself  on  the  plain,  then  wandering 

Down  one  clear  path  of  effluence  crystalline. 
Sends  its  superfluous  waves,  that  they  may  fling 

At  Anions  feet  tribute  of  corn  and  wine. 
Then,  through  the  pestilential  deserts  wild 

Of  tangled  marsh  and  woods  of  stunted  pine, 
It  rushes  to  the  Ocean. 


[  253  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN   ITALY 

FRAGMENT 

EVENING :   PONTE  AL  MARE, 

PISA. 

I 

The  sun  is  set ;  the  swallows  are  asleep ; 

The  bats  are  flitting  fast  in  the  grey  air ; 
The  slow  soft  toads  out  of  damp  corners  creep, 

And  evening's  breath,  wandering  here  and  there 
Over  the  quivering  surface  of  the  stream, 
Wakes  not  one  ripple  from  its  Summer  dream. 

II 

There  is  no  dew  on  the  dry  grass  to-night, 
Nor  damp  within  the  shadow  of  the  trees ; 

The  wind  is  intermitting,  dry,  and  hght ; 
And  in  the  inconstant  motion  of  the  breeze 

The  dust  and  straws  are  driven  up  and  down, 

And  whirled  about  the  pavement  of  the  town. 

Ill 

Within  the  surface  of  the  fleethig  river 
The  wrinkled  image  of  the  city  lay. 

Immovably  unquiet,  and  for  ever 

It  trembles,  but  it  never  fades  away ; 

Go  to  the  .  .  . 

You,  being  changed,  will  find  it  then  as  now. 
[  254  ] 


hj 


1 

O 

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H 

O 

CB 

W 

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a; 

O 

tei 

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H 

2_ 

o 

n' 

s 

CD 

& 

THE  YEARS   1820  AND   1821 

rv 

The  chasm  in  which  the  sun  has  sunk  is  shut 
By  darkest  barriers  of  cinereous  cloud_, 

Like  mountain  over  mountain  huddled^  but 
Growing  and  moving  upwards  in  a  crowd ; 

And  over  it  a  space  of  watery  blue. 

Which  the  keen  evening  star  is  shining  through. 

CHOEUS  TO   HELLAS 

The  world's  great  age  begins  anew. 

The  golden  years  return. 
The  earth  doth  like  a  snake  renew 

Her  Winter  weeds  outworn  : 
Heaven  smiles,  and  faiths  and  empires  gleam, 
Like  wrecks  of  a  dissolving  dream. 

A  brighter  Hellas  rears  its  mountains 

From  waves  serener  far; 
A  new  Peneus  rolls  his  fountains 

Against  the  morning  star. 
Where  fairer  Tempes  bloom,  there  sleep 
Young  Cyclads  on  a  sunnier -deep. 

A  loftier  Argo  cleaves  the  main. 

Fraught  with  a  later  prize ; 
Another  Orpheus  sings  again. 

And  loves,  and  weeps,  and  dies. 
A  new  Ulysses  leaves  once  more 
Calypso  for  his  native  shore. 
[  255  ] 


WITH    SHELLEY   IN  ITALY 

Oh,  write  no  more  the  tale  of  Troy, 
If  earth  Death's  scroll  must  be ! 

Nor  mix  with  Laian  rage  the  joy 
Which  dawns  upon  the  free  : 

Although  a  subtler  Sphinx  renew 

Riddles  of  death  Thebes  never  knew. 

Another  Athens  shall  arise. 

And  to  remoter  time 
Bequeath,  like  sunset  to  the  skies, 

The  splendour  of  its  prime ; 
And  leave,  if  nought  so  bright  may  live, 
AU  earth  can  take  or  Heaven  can  give. 

Saturn  and  Love  their  long  repose 
Shall  burst,  more  bright  and  good 

Than  all  who  fell,  than  One  who  rose. 
Than  many  unsubdued : 

Not  gold,  not  blood,  their  altar  dowers. 

But  votive  tears  and  symbol  flowers. 

Oh,  cease  !  must  hate  and  death  return  ? 

Cease !  must  men  kill  and  die  ? 
Cease !  drain  not  to  its  dregs  the  urn 

Of  bitter  prophecy. 
The  world  is  weary  of  the  past, 
Oh,  might  it  die  or  rest  at  last ! 


[  256  ] 


THE  YEAR  1822 


9^  1 


THE   YEAR  1822 

PISA:    BAY  OF  LERICI 

INTRODUCTORY 

^LL  Winter  long,  a  seaside  residence  for  the  Sum- 
>^f  mer  had  been  the  talk  of  the  little  colony  of  friends 
at  Pisa.  House-himti7ig  began  in  Febriuiry,  but 
proved  to  be  so  difficult  that  in  the  end  only  one  house 
could  be  secured  for  the  two  families  of  Shelley  and 
Williams,  and  the  remainder  of  the  group  gave  up  al- 
together the  idea  of  removal.  The  place  selected  loas 
Casa  Magni,  now  known  as  Casa  Maccarini,  on  the  Bay 
of  Lerici  near  tlie  little  fishing-village  of  San  Terenzo. 
To  this  hoiise,  whose  foundations  were  built  in  the  very 
midst  of  the  waves,  and  zvhich,  when  storms  raged  and 
the  waters  dashed  against  it,  seemed  quite  as  much  boat 
as  house,  they  removed  in  the  last  days  of  April,  1822. 
A  third  story  has  been  added  since  the  time  of  the  SJielleys 
and  a  modern  road  now  passes'in  front,  but  the  arrange- 
ment of  the  interior  is  quite  unaltered.  The  wide  terrace 
running  entirely  across  the  front  of  the  house  is  its  prin- 
cipal charm,  and  here  one  may  truly  feel  Shelley  as  a 
^'^ presence  plain  in  the  place,""  may  fancy  him  walking 
up  and  down,  adding  new  stanzas  to  "  The  Triumph  of 
[  259  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

Lrfe^  or  composing  some  of  the  lovely  lyrics  so  full  of 
the  local  color  of  this  charming  hay. 

Where  music  and  moonlight  and  feeling 
Are  one. 

The  taste  for  boating  and  athletics  shared  in  common 
by  Shelley  and  Williams,  although  in  the  end  to  prove 
their  undoing,  zvas  from  the  start  a  great  source  of 
pleasure  and  health  to  both.  Mrs.  Williams  was  musical 
and  had  a  ceHain  charm  of  manner  which  seems  to  have 
been  acknowledged  by  everyone.  Plainly  it  zvas  felt  by 
both  of  the  Shelley s,  and  Shelley  wrote  of  her:  "All 
agree  that  Jane  is  the  exact  antitype  of  the  lady  described 
in  '  T7ie  Sensitive  Plant,''  though  this  must  have  been  a 
'pure  anticipated  cognition^  as  it  zvas  written  a  year 
before  I  Tcnew  her.''''  The  lyrics  addressed  "  To  Jane " 
and  the  "  Lines  Written  in  the  Bay  of  Ler'ici "  reflect  the 
characteristic  mood  and  the  occupat'ions  of  this  Summer 
by  the  sea. 

A  little  sail-boat,  the  ''Ariel,''''  built  according  to  the 
plans  of  these  amateur  seamen  and  not  entirely  approved 
by  the  builder  of  'it,  nozo  became  Shelley'' s  favorite  haunt, 
and  drifting  on  the  waves  or  rest'mg  in  some  sea-cave,  he 
took  up  once  more  the  story  of  Charles  I  as  the  subject 
of  a  tragedy  he  had  long  been  contemplating,  and  began 
"  Tlie  Ti''iumph  of  L'lfe^''  a  long  poem  in  terza  rima,  the 
favorite  Italian  metre.  These  remain  as  fragments  only, 
but  "  The  Triumph  of  Life  "  shorvs  that  Shelley''s  pozoers 
as  a  poet  were  never  more  awake  nor  more  sweetly  timed 
to  lofty  themes  than  now. 

[  260  ] 


THE   YEAR  1822 

It  Is  characteristic  of  Shelley's  ivhole  self-forgetting 
career  that  the  voyage  which  cost  him  his  life  was  under- 
taken solely  in  the  interests  of  friendship  and  generosity. 
For  more  than  a  year  he  had  been  working  iip  a  scheme 
for  the  estahlishment  of  a  literary  magazine  at  Pisa, 
to  be  called  "  The  Liberal  Byron  and  Shelley  ivere  to 
furnish  the  funds  and  to  be  its  contributors ;  Leigh  Hunt 
was  to  come  from  Englaiul  to  edit  it.  The  whole  prefect 
was  conceived  largely  for  the  sake  of  helping  the  well- 
beloved  but  ahoays  unfortunate  Hunt,  by  giving  him  an 
occupation  xvorthy  of  his  powers,  and  at  the  same  time 
possibly  benefiting  his  health  by  a  change  of  climate. 
With  much  tact,  Byron  was  induced  by  Slielley  to  agree 
to  surrender  the  lower  floor  of  his  palace  on  the  Amo  at 
Pisa  for  the  occupation  of  Hunt,  his  invalid  ivife,  and 
his  seven  children.  Txoice  Shelley  furnished  the  money 
for  the  trip  from  England  to  Italy,  the  first  start  proving 
a  failure  owing  to  a  storm  at  sea,  which  drove  them  back. 
But  in  these  last  days  of  June,  1822,  word  came  that 
the  Hints  had  at  last  reached  Genoa  and  wotdd  con- 
tinue their  journey  by  water  to  Leghorn.  Shelley  and 
Williams  made  no  delay  in  sailing  for  the  same  port, 
in  their  own  little  boat,  to  meet  them.  TJie  jmirney  was 
scarcely  longer  than  those  they  were  in  the  habit  of 
making,  although  more  out  in  the  open  sea ;  there  was 
no  thought  of  danger,  and  the  run  was  accomplished 
swiftly  and  without  adventure. 

After  seeing  Hunt  comfoHably  settled  in  Pisa,  on  the 
eighth  day  of  Jidy,  Shelley  started  an  the  return  voyage 
with  only  Williams  and  a  young  sailor  boy  as  compan- 
[  261  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN  ITALY 

io7is.  Eager  to  be  off^  they  paid  no  heed  to  the  sug- 
gestion of  an  old  sailor  that  "  the  Devil  was  a-hrewing 
mischief  out  there^''  and  at  mid-day,  the  ^^  Ai'ieV  sailed 
out  of  Leghorn  harbor.  With  a  glass,  she  zvas  xvatched 
by  a  friend  from  the  light-house  tower ;  he  could  see  her 
as  far  as  Viareggio}  about  ten  miles  out  at  sea,  could 
see  the  "  temporale "  coming  in  from  the  gulf,  could  see 
them  tahing  in  the  topsail.  Then  the  storm,  burst,  hid- 
ing them  from  view  and  raging  xvith  great  fury ;  it 
passed  as  quickly  as  it  came ;  in  twenty  minutes  the  hori- 
zon was  clear  again,  but  arrwng  the  many  small  craft 
which  had  weathered  the  gale,  there  zvas  no  sign  of  the 
^^  Ariel."  Shelley  had  never  learned  to  swim,  and  the 
sea,  which  he  had  loved  "  not  wisely  but  too  well^''  had 
engulfed  him  in  its  waves. 

Ten  days  later,  the  three  bodies  zoere  washed  ashore, 
Shelley''s  being  easily  identified  by  his  garments  and  the 
copy  of  Keats's  poems,  given  to  him  by  Hunt  at  their 
parting.^     The  sto7-y  of  the  cremation  on  August  six- 

1  Shelley's  English  and  American  editors  have  perpetuated  Mrs.  Shelley's 
wrong  writing  of  this  word  as  "  Via  Reggio."  — Ed. 

2  The  circumstances  are  related  by  Robert  Browning  in  a  letter  dated 
March,  1877-  "Leigh  Hunt  told  me  that  the  'Lamia'  was  the  only  copy 
procurable  in  Italy.  That  he  lent  it  to  Shelley  with  due  injunctions  to  be 
careful  of  the  loan  on  that  account,  and  that  Shelley  replied  emphatically : 
'  I  will  return  it  to  you  with  my  own  hands.'  He  told  me  also  of  the  con- 
solation there  was  to  him  in  the  circumstance  that  the  book  had  been  found 
in  Shelley's  bosom,  together  with  the  right  hand  —  evidently  thrust  there, 
as  his  custom  was,  when  having  been  struck  by  any  passage  in  whatever 
book  he  might  be  reading  with  a  friend,  he  paused  to  enjoy  and  pronounce 
upon  it.  This  circumstance  Leigh  Hunt  considered  decisive  as  to  the  sud- 
denness and  comparative  painlessness  of  the  death.  ...  On  my  asking 
Leigh  Hunt  if  the  book  still  existed,  he  replied,  '  No,  I  threw  it  into  the 

[  262  ] 


S    b- 


^■  i 


^ 


c    c3  :_ , 
x;    jT  ;lh 


THE   YEAR   1822 

teenth^  has  been  told  vividly  by  the  eye-witnesses,  Tre- 
lawiiey.  Hunt,  and  Byron. 

Tradition  at  Viareggio  still  points  to  the  spot  on  the 
sands  near  the  edge  of  the  pine  forest,  zahere  the  fineral 
pyre  xoas  made ;  but  its  picturesqueness  and  desolation 
have  been  banished  by  the  encroachments  of  a  popular 
bathing-place,  and  the  spade  is  noxo  (190Jf,)  about  to 
destroy  all  vestiges  of  the  spot  by  the  erection  of  a  new 
building.  The  oldest  inhabitant,  aged  ninety-five,  claims 
to  remember  the  event,  but  her  reminiscences  are  too 
confused  to  be  trustworthy. 

The  ashes  were  preserved  and  buried,  as  was  fitting, 
in  the  Protestant  Cemetery  at  Rome  —  the  spot  of  ivhich 
Shelley  had  written^  ^^  It  might  make  one  in  love  zcith 
death,  to  think  that  ojie  shmdd  be  buried  in  so  szoeet  a 
place."" 

Fitting  requiem  of  the  poet  are  his  own  words  — 
seemingly  prophetic  —  zvhich  close  the  "  Ode  to  Liberty  ^ : 

My  sofiff,  its  pinions  disarrayed  of  might, 
Drooped  ;  der  it  closed  the  echoes  far  away 
Of  the  great  voice  which  did  its  fight  sustain, 
As  waves  which  lately  paved  his  watery  way 
Hiss  round  a  drowner's  head  in  their  tempestuous  play. 

Of  the  man,  many  and  tender  were  the  tributes  written 
both  at  the  time  and  since,  bid  none  more  touching  than 
that  of  the  friend  who  knew  him  best,  Leigh  Hunt :  — 

burning  pile  ;  Shelley  said  he  would  return  it  with  his  own  hands  into  mine, 
and  so  he  shall  return  it ! '  " 

1  Scarcely  any  two  of  Shelley's  biographers  have  agreed  on  the  date  of  this 
event.  In  the  archives  at  Viareggio  may  be  read  the  Health  Officer's 
report  saying  it  took  place  August  16th  at  four  in  the  afternoon.  — Ed. 

[  263  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN  ITALY 

*'  Had  he  lived,  .  .  .  he  would  have  made  everybody  know 
him  for  what  he  was  —  a  man  idolized  by  his  friends,  studious, 
temperate,  of  the  gentlest  life  and  conversation,  and  willing  to 
have  died  to  do  the  world  a  service." 

"  Had  he  lived ! ""  But  even  though  dead^  something 
of  this  has  corne  to  pass.  Better  than  his  contempo- 
raries, do  we  of  the  twentieth  century  understand  his 
motives;  more  plainly  than  they,  do  we  see  that  his 
deeds,  even  when  seemingly  erratic  and  hlameworthy, 
were  never  inspired  by  otlier  than  lofty  ideals ;  and  in 
spite  of  all  our  materialism,  our  hearts  respond  as  never 
before  to  the  message  of  the  most  spiritual  of  the  English 
poets. 

TO   JANE:   THE   INVITATION 

Best  and  brightest,  come  away  ! 
Fairer  far  than  this  fair  Day, 
Which,  like  thee  to  those  in  sorrow, 
Comes  to  bid  a  sweet  good-morrow 
To  the  rough  Year  just  awake 
In  its  cradle  on  the  brake. 
The  brightest  hour  of  unborn  Spring, 
Through  the  Winter  wandering, 
Found,  it  seems,  the  halcyon  Morn 
To  hoar  February  born  ; 
Bending  from  Heaven,  in  azure  mirth, 
It  kissed  the  forehead  of  the  Earth, 
Alid  smiled  upon  the  silent  sea, 
And  bade  the  frozen  streams  be  free, 
[  264  ] 


THE   YEAR   1822 

And  waked  to  music  all  their  fountains, 
And  breathed  upon  the  frozen  mountains. 
And  like  a  prophetess  of  May 
Strewed  flowers  upon  the  barren  way. 
Making  the  wintry  world  appear 
Like  one  on  whom  thou  smilest,  dear. 

Away,  away,  from  men  and  towns, 
To  the  wild  wood  and  the  downs  — 
To  the  silent  wilderness 
Where  the  soul  need  not  repress 
Its  music  lest  it  should  not  find 
An  echo  in  another^s  mind. 
While  the  touch  of  Nature's  art 
Harmonises  heart  to  heart. 
I  leave  this  notice  on  my  door 
For  each  accustomed  visitor  :  — 
"  I  am  gone  into  the  fields 
To  take  what  this  sweet  hour  yields  ;  — 
Eeflection,  you  may  come  to-morrow, 
Sit  by  the  fireside  with  Sorrow.  — 
You  with  the  unpaid  bill.  Despair^  — 
You  tiresome  verse-reciter.  Care,  — 
I  will  pay  you  in  the  grave,  — 
Death  will  listen  to  your  stave. 
Expectation  too,  be  ofp ! 
To-day  is  for  itself  enough; 
Hope  in  pity  mock  not  Woe 
With  smiles,  nor  follow  where  I  go  ; 
Long  having  lived  on  thy  sweet  food, 
[  265  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN   ITALY 

At  length  I  find  one  moment's  good 
After  long  pain  —  with  all  your  love, 
This  jou  never  told  me  of." 

Radiant  Sister  of  the  Day, 
Awake  !  arise  !  and  come  away ! 
To  the  wild  woods  and  the  plains. 
And  the  pools  where  Winter  rains 
Image  all  their  roof  of  leaves. 
Where  the  pine  its  garland  weaves 
Of  sapless  green  and  ivy  dun 
Round  stems  that  never  kiss  the  sun ; 
Where  the  lawns  and  pastures  be. 
And  the  sandhills  of  the  sea ;  — 
Where  the  melting  hoar-frost  wets 
The  daisy-star  that  never  sets. 
And  wind-flowers,  and  violets, 
Which  yet  join  not  scent  to  hue. 
Crown  the  pale  year  weak  and  new ; 
When  the  night  is  left  behind 
In  the  deep  east,  dun  and  blind. 
And  the  blue  noon  is  over  us, 
And  the  multitudinous 
Billows  murmur  at  our  feet. 
Where  the  earth  and  ocean  meet. 
And  all  things  seem  only  one 
In  the  universal  sun. 


[  266  ] 


>  s-i 


>  ■ 


THE   YEAR  1822 


TO  JANE:   THE   RECOLLECTION 


Now  the  last  day  of  many  days, 
All  beautiful  and  bright  as  thou. 
The  loveliest  and  the  last,  is  dead, 
Rise,  Memory,  and  write  its  praise  ! 
Up  to  thy  wonted  work  !  come,  trace 

The  epitaph  of  glory  fled,  — 

For  now  the  Earth  has  changed  its  face, 

A  frown  is  on  the  Heaven's  brow. 


II 

We  wandered  to  the  Pine  Forest 

That  skirts  the  Ocean's  foam. 
The  lightest  wind  was  in  its  nest. 

The  tempest  in  its  home. 
The  whispermg  waves  were  lialf  asleep, 

The  clouds  were  gone  to  play. 
And  on  the  bosom  of  the  deep, 

The  smile  of  Heaven  lay  ; 
It  seemed  as  if  the  hour  were  one 

Sent  from  beyond  the  skies. 
Which  scattered  from  above  the  sun 

A  light  of  Paradise. 

1  This  poem  was  called  originally  "  In  the  Pine  Forest  of  the  Cascine, 
near  Pisa." 

[.  267  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 


III 

We  paused  amid  the  pines  that  stood 

The  giants  of  the  waste, 
Tortured  by  storms  to  shapes  as  rude 

As  serpents  interlaced. 
And  soothed  by  every  azure  breath. 

That  under  heaven  is  blown. 
To  harmonies  and  hues  beneath, 

As  tender  as  its  own  ; 
Now  all  the  tree-tops  lay  asleep, 

Like  green  waves  on  the  sea, 
As  still  as  in  the  silent  deep 

The  ocean  woods  may  be. 


IV 

How  calm  it  was  !  —  the  silence  there 

By  such  a  chain  was  bound 
That  even  the  busy  woodpecker 

Made  stiller  by  her  sound 
The  inviolable  quietness ; 

The  breath  of  peace  we  drew 
With  its  soft  motion  made  not  less 

The  calm  that  round  us  grew. 
There  seemed  from  the  remotest  seat 

Of  the  white  mountain  waste. 
To  the  soft  flower  beneath  our  feet, 

A  magic  circle  traced,  — 
[  268  ] 


THE   YEAR   1822 

A  spirit  interfused  around, 

A  thrilling  silent  life. 
To  momentary  peace  it  bound 

Our  mortal  nature^s  strife ;  — 
And  still  I  felt  the  centre  of 

The  magic  circle  there, 
Was  one  fair  form  that  filled  with  love 

The  lifeless  atmosphere. 

V 
We  paused  beside  the  pools  that  lie 

Under  the  forest  bough. 
Each  seemed  as  ^t  were  a  little  sky 

Gulfed  in  a  world  below ; 
A  firmament  of  purple  light, 

Which  in  the  dark  earth  lay. 
More  boundless  than  the  depth  of  night. 

And  purer  than  the  day  — 
In  which  the  lovely  forests  grew 

As  in  the  upper  air. 
More  perfect  both  in  shape  and  hue 

Than  any  spreading  there. 
There  lay  the  glade  and  neighbouring  lawn, 

And  through  the  dark  green  wood 
The  white  sun  twinkling  like  the  dawn 

Out  of  a  speckled  cloud. 
Sweet  views  which  in  our  world  above 

Can  never  well  be  seen. 
Were  imaged  by  the  water's  love 

Of  that  fair  forest  green. 
[  269  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

And  all  was  interfused  beneath 

With  an  eljsian  glow. 
An  atmosphere  without  a  breath, 

A  softer  day  below. 
Like  one  beloved  the  scene  had  lent 

To  the  dark  water's  breast, 
Its  every  leaf  and  lineament 

With  more  than  truth  exprest : 
Until  an  envious  wind  crept  by, 

Like  an  unwelcome  thought. 
Which  from  the  mind's  too  faithful  eye 

Blots  one  dear  image  out. 
Though  thou  art  ever  fair  and  kind, 

The  forests  ever  green, 
Less  oft  is  peace  in  Shelley's  mind, 

Than  calm  in  waters  seen. 

WITH  A  GUITAR:   TO  JANE^ 

Aeiel  to  Miranda.  —  Take 

This  slave  of  Music,  for  the  sake 

Of  him  who  is  the  slave  of  thee. 

And  teach  it  all  the  harmony 

In  which  thou  canst,  and  only  thou. 

Make  the  delighted  spirit  glow, 

^  This  instrument,  still  in  perfect  condition,  is  preserved  in  the  Bodleian 
Library  at  Oxford,  having  been  given  by  E.  W.  Silsbee,  of  Salem,  Mass., 
v?ho  bought  it  of  the  grandson  of  the  lady  to  whom  the  poem  is  addressed. 
"  There  is  probably  no  other  relic  of  a  great  poet  so  intimately  associated 
with  the  arts  of  poetry  and  music,  or  ever  will  be,  unless  Milton's  orgau 
should  turn  up  at  a  broker's,  or  some  excavating  explorer  should  bring 
to  light  the  lyre  of  Sappho."  — R.  Gaenett. 

[  270  J 


■]\/rONUMENT  to  Shelley  at  Viaregsiio. 
In    Piazza    Shelley,  Ibnuerly   Piazza 

I'liiiliua. 


THE   YEAR   1822 

Till  joy  denies  itself  again, 
And,  too  intense,  is  turned  to  pain ; 
For,  by  permission  and  command 
Of  thine  own  Prince  Ferdinand, 
Poor  Ariel  sends  this  silent  token 
Of  more  than  ever  can  be  spoken ; 
Your  guardian  spirit,  Ariel,  who. 
From  life  to  life,  must  still  pursue 
Your  happiness ;  —  for  thus  alone 
Can  Ariel  ever  find  his  own. 
From  Prosperous  enchanted  cell, 
As  the  mighty  verses  tell. 
To  the  throne  of  Naples,  he 
Lit  you  o''er  the  trackless  sea. 
Flitting  on,  your  prow  before. 
Like  a  living  meteor. 
When  you  die,  the  silent  Moon, 
In  her  interlunar  swoon. 
Is  not  sadder  in  her  cell 
Than  deserted  Ariel. 
When  you  live  again  on  earth 
Like  an  unseen  star  of  birth, 
Ariel  guides  you  o'er  the  sea 
Of  life  from  your  nativity. 
Many  changes  have  been  run, 
Since  Ferdinand  and  you  begun 
Your  course  of  love,  and  Ariel  still 
Has  tracked  your  steps,  and  served  your  will; 
Now,  in  humbler,  happier  lot 
This  is  all  remembered  not; 
[  271  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

And  now,  alas  !  the  poor  sprite  is 
Imprisoned,  for  some  fault  of  his. 
In  a  body  like  a  grave;  — 
From  you  he  only  dares  to  crave, 
For  his  service  and  his  sorrow, 
A  smile  to-day,  a  song  to-morrow. 


The  artist  who  this  idol  wrought, 
To  echo  all  harmonious  thought, 
Felled  a  tree,  while  on  the  steep 
The  woods  were  in  their  Winter  sleep. 
Rocked  in  that  repose  divine 
On  the  wind-swept  Apennine ; 
And  dreaming,  some  of  Autumn  past. 
And  some  of  Spring  approaching  fast. 
And  some  of  April  buds  and  showers. 
And  some  of  songs  in  July  bowers. 
And  all  of  love  ;  and  so  this  tree,  — 
O  that  such  our  death  may  be !  — 
Died  in  sleep,  and  felt  no  pain, 
To  live  in  happier  form  again  : 
From  which,  beneath  Heaven^s  fairest  star. 
The  artist  wrought  this  loved  Guitar, 
And  taught  it  justly  to  reply, 
To  all  who  question  skilfully. 
In  language  gentle  as  thine  own ; 
Whispering  in  enamoured  tone 
Sweet  oracles  of  woods  and  dells. 
And  Summer  winds  in  sylvan  cells ; 
[  272  ] 


THE   YEAR  1822 

For  it  had  learnt  all  harmonies 
Of  the  plains  and  of  the  skies, 
Of  the  forests  and  the  mountains, 
And  the  many-voiced  fomitaius  ; 
The  clearest  echoes  of  the  hills, 
The  softest  notes  of  falling  rills, 
The  melodies  of  birds  and  bees. 
The  murmuring  of  Summer  seas, 
And  pattering  rain,  and  breathing  dew. 
And  airs  of  evening ;  and  it  knew 
That  seldom-heard  mysterious  sound. 
Which,  driven  on  its  diurnal  round. 
As  it  floats  through  boundless  day, 
Our  world  enkindles  on  its  way  — 
All  this  it  knows,  but  will  not  tell 
To  those  who  cannot  question  well 
The  spirit  that  inhabits  it ; 
It  talks  according  to  the  wit 
Of  its  companions ;  and  no  more 
Is  heard  than  has  been  felt  before. 
By  those  who  tempt  it  to  betray 
These  secrets  of  an  elder  day  : 
But  sweetly  as  its  answers  will 
Flatter  hands  of  perfect  skill. 
It  keeps  its  highest,  holiest  tone 
For  our  beloved  Jane  alone. 


18    .  [  273  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

TO  JANE 

THE    KEEN    STARS    WERE    TWINKLING' 


The  keen  stars  were  twinkling, 
And  the  fair  moon  was  rising  among  them. 
Dear  Jane ! 
The  guitar  was  tinkling, 
But  the  notes  were  not  sweet  till  you  sung  them 
Again. 

II 

As  the  moon's  soft  splendour 
O'er  the  faint  cold  starlight  of  heaven 
Is  thrown, 
So  your  voice  most  tender 
To  the  strings  without  soul  had  then  given 
Its  own. 


Ill 

The  stars  will  awaken, 
Though  the  moon  sleep  a  full  hour  later, 
To-night; 
No  leaf  will  be  shaken 
Whilst  the  dews  of  your  melody  scatter 
Delight. 

[  274  ] 


IVTINERVA.    In 


—  See  p.  282. 


THE   YEAR   1822 


IV 


Though  the  sound  overpowers, 
Sing  again,  with  your  dear  voice  revealing 
A  tone 
Of  some  worki  far  from  ours. 
Where  music  and  moonlight  and  feeling 
Are  one. 


A  DIEGE 

KouGH  wind,  that  moanest  loud 

Grief  too  sad  for  song; 
Wild  wind,  when  sullen  cloud 

Knells  all  the  night  long ; 
Sad  storm,  whose  tears  are  vain. 

Bare  woods,  whose  branches  stain. 
Deep  caves  and  dreary  main, 

Wail,  for  the  world^s  wrong  ! 

LINES  WRITTEN   IN  THE   BAY   OF  LERICI 

She  left  me  at  the  silent  time 
When  the  moon  had  ceased  to  climb 
The  azure  path  of  Heaven's  steep, 
And  like  an  albatross  asleep. 
Balanced  on  her  wings  of  light. 
Hovered  in  the  purple  night, 
Ere  she  sought  her  ocean  nest 
In  the  chambers  of  the  West. 
[  275  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN   ITALY 

She  left  me,  and  I  stayed  alone 
Thinking  over  every  tone 
Which,  though  silent  to  the  ear, 
The  enchanted  heart  could  hear. 
Like  notes  which  die  when  born,  but  still 
Haunt  the  echoes  of  the  hill ; 
And  feeling  ever  —  oh,  too  much  !  — 
The  soft  vibration  of  her  touch. 
As  if  her  gentle  hand,  even  now, 
Lightly  trembled  on  my  brow ; 
And  thus,  although  she  absent  were. 
Memory  gave  me  all  of  her 
That  even  Fancy  dares  to  claim  :  — 
Her  presence  had  made  weak  and  tame 
All  passions,  and  I  lived  alone 
In  the  time  which  is  our  own ; 
The  past  and  future  were  forgot. 
As  they  had  been,  and  would  be,  not. 
But  soon,  the  guardian  angel  gone, 
The  daemon  reassumed  his  throne 
In  my  faint  heart.     I  dare  not  speak 
My  thoughts,  but  thus  disturbed  and  weak 
I  sat  and  saw  the  vessels  glide 
Over  the  ocean  bright  and  wide, 
Like  spirit-winged  chariots  sent 
O^er  some  serenest  element 
For  ministrations  strange  and  far; 
As  if  to  some  Elysian  star 
Sailed  for  drink  to  medicine 
Such  sweet  and  bitter  pain  as  mine. 
[  276  ] 


THE   YEAR   1822 

And  the  wind  that  winged  their  flight 

From  the  land  came  fresh  and  light, 

And  the  scent  of  winged  flowers. 

And  the  coolness  of  the  hours 

Of  dew,  and  sweet  warmth  left  by  day. 

Were  scattered  o^er  the  twinkling  bay. 

And  the  fisher  with  his  lamp 

And  spear  about  the  low  rocks  damp 

Crept,  and  struck  the  fish  which  came 

To  worship  the  delusive  flame. 

Too  happy  they,  whose  pleasure  sought 

Extinguishes  all  sense  and  thought 

Of  the  regret  that  pleasure  leaves. 

Destroying  life  alone,  not  peace  ! 

THE  ISLE 

There  was  a  little  lawny  islet 
By  anemone  and  violet. 

Like  mosaic,  paven : 
And  its  roof  was  flowers  and  leaves 
"Which  the  Summer's  breath  enweaves, 
Where  nor  sun  nor  showers  nor  breeze 
Pierce  the  pines  and  tallest  trees. 

Each  a  gem  engraven. 
Girt  by  many  an  azure  wave 
With  which  the  clouds  and  mountains  pave 

A  lake's  blue  chasm. 


[  277  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN  ITALY 

TO  LEIGH   HUNT 
(At  Genoa) 

Lekici,  June  19, 1822. 
My  dearest  Friend,  —  I  write  to  you  on  the  chance 
that  you  may  not  have  left  Genoa  before  my  letter  can 
reach  you.  Your  letter  was  sent  to  Pisa,  and  thence  for- 
warded here,  or  I  should  probably  have  ventured  to  meet 
you  at  Genoa ;  but  the  chances  are  now  so  much  dimin- 
ished of  finding  you  that  I  will  not  run  the  risk  of  the 
delay  of  seeing  you  that  would  be  caused  by  our  missing 
each  other  on  the  way.  I  shall  therefore  set  off  for  Leg- 
horn the  moment  that  I  hear  you  have  sailed.  We  now 
inhabit  a  white  house,  with  arches,  near  the  town  of  Lerici, 
in  the  Gulf  of  Spezia.  The  Williamses  are  with  us. 
Williams  is  one  of  the  best  fellows  in  the  world;  and 
Jane,  his  wife,  a  most  delightful  person,  whom  we  all 
agree  is  the  exact  antitype  of  the  lady  I  described  in  "  The 
Sensitive  Plant,'"  though  this  must  have  been  a  pure  antici- 
pated cognition,  as  it  was  written  a  year  before  I  knew  her. 
I  wish  you  need  not  pass  Lerici,  which  I  fear  you  will  do ; 
cast  your  eye  on  the  white  house  and  think  of  us. 

A  thousand  welcomes,  my  best  friend,  to  this  divine 
country ;  high  mountains  and  seas  no  longer  divide  those 
whose  affections  are  united.  .  .  .  Give  me  the  earliest  in- 
telligence of  your  motions. 


[278  ] 


[7F,Xrs  ANADVOM KNE. 
*    III  rtlizi  Cnlk-rv. 


See  p.  285. 


THE   YEAR   1822 

TO  HOEACE   SMITH 

(London) 

Lerici,  June  29,  1822. 

•  ••••• 

Lord  Byron  continues  at  Leghorn,  and  has  just  received 
from  Genoa  a  most  beautiful  little  yacht,  which  he  caused 
to  be  built  there.  He  has  written  two  new  cantos  of  "  Don 
Juan/'  but  I  have  not  seen  them.  I  have  just  received  a 
letter  from  Hunt,  who  has  arrived  at  Genoa.  As  soon  as 
I  hear  that  he  has  sailed,  I  shall  weigh  anchor  in  ray  little 
schooner,  and  give  him  chase  to  Leghorn,  when  I  must 
occupy  myself  in  some  arrangements  for  him  with  Lord 
Byron.  Between  ourselves,  I  greatly  fear  that  this  alli- 
ance ^  will  not  succeed  :  for  I,  who  could  never  have  been 
regarded  as  more  than  the  link  of  the  two  thunderbolts, 
cannot  now  consent  to  be  even  that;  and  how  long  the 
alliance  may  continue,  I  will  not  prophesy.  Pray  do  not 
hint  my  doubts  on  the  subject  to  any  one,  or  they  might 
do  harm  to  Hunt ;  and  they  may  be  groundless. 

I  still  inhabit  this  divine  bay,  reading  Spanish  dramas, 
and  sailing,  and  listening  to  the  most  enchanting  music. 
We  have  some  friends  on  a  visit  to  us,  and  my  only  regret 
is  that  the  Summer  must  ever  pass,  or  that  Mary  has  not 
the  same  predilection  for  this  place  that  I  have,  which 
would  induce  me  never  to  shift  my  quarters. 

^  Alliance  of  Lord  Byron,  Leigh  Hunt,  and  Shelley,  for  the  publication 
at  Pisa  of  a  periodical  to  be  called  "  The  Liberal."  The  first  number  of 
this  magazine,  not  issued  until  after  Shelley's  death,  contained  contributions 
from  all  three.  It  was  a  failure  financiaUy,  and  was  discontinued  after  the 
publication  of  four  numbers. 

[  279  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN   ITALY 

CRITICAL  NOTICES   OP  THE   SCULPTUEE  IN 
THE  FLORENCE   GALLERY 

On  the  Niobe 

Op  all  that  remains  to  us  of  Greek  antiquity,  this  figure 
is  perhaps  the  most  consummate  personification  of  loveli- 
ness, with  regard  to  its  countenance,  as  that  of  the  Venus 
of  the  Tribune  is  with  regard  to  its  entire  form  of  woman. 
It  is  colossal ;  the  size  adds  to  its  value ;  because  it  allows 
to  the  spectator  the  choice  of  a  greater  number  of  points 
of  view,  and  affords  him  a  more  analytical  one,  in  which  to 
catch  a  greater  number  of  the  infinite  modes  of  expression 
of  which  any  form  approaching  ideal  beauty  is  necessarily 
composed.  It  is  the  figure  of  a  mother  in  the  act  of 
sheltering,  from  some  divine  and  inevitable  peril,  the  last, 
we  may  imagine,  of  her  surviving  children. 

The  little  creature,  terrified,  as  we  may  conceive,  at  the 
strange  destruction  of  all  its  kindred,  has  fled  to  its  mother 
and  is  hiding  its  head  in  the  folds  of  her  robe,  and  casting 
back  one  arm,  as  in  a  passionate  appeal  for  defence, 
where  it  never  before  could  have  been  sought  in  vain. 
She  is  clothed  in  a  thin  tunic  of  delicate  woof;  and  her 
hair  is  fastened  on  her  head  into  a  knot,  probably  by  that 
mother  whose  care  will  never  fasten  it  again.  Niobe  is  en- 
veloped in  profuse  drapery,  a  portion  of  which  the  left  hand 
has  gathered  up,  and  is  in  the  act  of  extending  it  over  the 
child  in  the  instinct  of  shielding  her  from  what  reason 
knows  to  be  inevitable.  The  right  (as  the  restorer  has 
properly  imagined)  is  drawing  up  her  daughter  to  her : 
[  280  ] 


THE   YEAR   1822 

and  with  that-  instinctive  gesture,  and  by  its  gentle  pres- 
sure, is  encouraging  the  child  to  believe  that  it  can  give 
security.  The  countenance  of  Niobe  is  the  consummation 
of  feminine  majesty  and  loveliness,  beyond  which  the  im- 
agination scarcely  doubts  that  it  can  conceive  anything. 

That  masterpiece  of  the  poetic  harmony  of  marble  ex- 
presses other  feelings.  There  is  embodied  a  sense  of  the 
inevitable  and  rapid  destiny  which  is  consummating  around 
her,  as  if  it  were  already  over.  It  seems  as  if  despair  and 
beauty  had  combined,  and  produced  nothing  but  the  sub- 
limity of  grief.  As  the  motions  of  the  form  expressed  the 
instinctive  sense  of  the  possibility  of  protecting  the  child, 
and  the  accustomed  and  affectionate  assurance  that  she 
would  find  an  asylum  within  her  arms,  so  reason  and  im- 
agination speak  in  the  countenance  the  certainty  that  no 
mortal  defence  is  of  avail.  There  is  no  terror  in  the  coun- 
tenance, only  grief  —  deep,  remediless  grief.  There  is  no 
anger:  —  of  what  avail  is  indignation  against  what  is 
known  to  be  omnipotent  ?  There  is  no  selfish  shrinking 
from  personal  pain  —  there  is  no  panic  at  supernatural 
agency  —  there  is  no  adverting  to  herself  as  herself :  the 
calamity  is  mightier  than  to  leave  scope  for  such  emotions. 

Everything  is  swallowed  up  in  sorrow  :  she  is  all  tears  ; 
her  countenance,  in  assured  expectation  of  the  arrow  pierc- 
ing its  last  victim  in  her  embrace,  is  fixed  on  her  omnipo- 
tent enemy.  The  pathetic  beauty  of  the  expression  of  her 
tender,  and  inexhaustible,  and  unquenchable  despair,  is 
beyond  the  effect  of  sculpture.  As  soon  as  the  arrow  shall 
pierce  her  last  tie  upon  earth,  the  fable  that  she  was  turned 
into  stone,  or  dissolved  into  a  fountain  of  tears,  will  be  but 
[  281  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN  ITALY 

a  feeble  emblem  of  the  sadness  of  hopelessness^  in  which 
the  few  and  evil  years  of  her  remaining  life,  we  feel,  must 
flow  away. 

It  is  difficult  to  speak  of  the  beauty  of  the  countenance, 
or  to  make  intelligible  in  words,  from  what  such  astonish- 
ing loveliness  results. 

The  head,  resting  somewhat  backward  upon  the  full  and 
flowing  contour  of  the  neck,  is  as  in  the  act  of  watching  an 
event  momently  to  arrive.  The  hair  is  delicately  divided 
on  the  forehead,  and  a  gentle  beauty  gleams  from  the  broad 
and  clear  forehead,  over  which  its  strings  are  drawn.  The 
face  is  of  an  oval  fulness,  and  the  features  conceived  with 
the  daring  of  a  sense  of  power.  In  this  respect  it  resem- 
bles the  careless  majesty  which  Nature  stamps  upon  the 
rare  masterpieces  of  her  creation,  harmonising  them  as  it 
were  from  the  harmony  of  the  spirit  within.  Yet  all  this 
not  only  consists  with,  but  is  the  cause  of  the  subtlest  deli- 
cacy of  clear  and  tender  beauty  —  the  expression  at  once 
of  innocence  and  sublimity  of  soul  —  of  purity  and  strength 
—  of  all  that  which  touches  the  most  removed  and  divine 
of  the  chords  that  make  music  in  our  thoughts  —  of  that 
which  shakes  with  astonishment  even  the  most  superficial. 

The  Minerva 

The  head  is  of  the  highest  beauty.  It  has  a  close  helmet, 
from  which  the  hair,  delicately  parted  on  the  forehead,  half 
escapes.  The  attitude  gives  entire  effect  to  the  perfect 
form  of  the  neck,  and  to  that  full  and  beautiful  moulding 
of  the  lower  part  of  the  face  and  mouth,  which  is  in  living 
[  282  J 


"lyTICIIEL  ANGELO'S  Bacchus. 
In  N:itiou;il  Miiscmii. 


—  See  p.  286. 


THE   YEAR   1822 

beings  the  seat  of  the  expression  of  a  simplicity  ana  in- 
tegrity of  nature.  Her  face,  upraised  to  heaven,  is  anima- 
ted with  a  profound,  sweet,  and  impassioned  melancholy, 
with  an  earnest,  and  fervid,  and  disinterested  pleading 
against  some  vast  and  inevitable  wrong.  It  is  the  joy  and 
poetry  of  sorrow  making  grief  beautiful,  and  giving  it  that 
nameless  feeling  which,  from  the  imperfection  of  language, 
we  call  pain,  but  which  is  not  all  pain,  though  a  feeling 
which  makes  not  only  its  possessor,  but  the  spectator  of  it, 
prefer  it  to  what  is  called  pleasure,  in  which  all  is  not 
pleasure.  It  is  difficult  to  think  that  this  head,  though  of 
highest  ideal  beauty,  is  the  head  of  Minerva,  although  the 
attributes  and  attitude  of  the  lower  part  of  the  statue  cer- 
tainly suggest  that  idea.  The  Greeks  rarely,  in  their  repre- 
sentations of  the  characters  of  their  gods,  —  unless  we  call 
the  poetic  enthusiasm  of  Apollo  a  mortal  passion,  —  ex- 
pressed the  disturbance  of  human  feeling  ;  and  here  is  deep 
and  impassioned  grief  animating  a  divine  countenance.  It 
is,  indeed,  divine.  Wisdom  (which  Minerva  may  be  sup- 
posed to  emblem)  is  pleading  earnestly  with  Power, — 
and  invested  with  the  expression  of  that  grief,  because  it 
must  ever  plead  so  vainly.  The  drapery  of  the  statue,  the 
gentle  beauty  of  the  feet,  and  the  grace  of  the  attitude,  are 
what  may  be  seen  in  many  other  statues  belonging  to  that 
astonishing  era  which  produced  it ;  such  a  countenance  is 
seen  in  few. 

This  statue  happens  to  be  placed  on  a  pedestal,  the  sub- 
ject of  whose  relief  is  in  a  spirit  wholly  the  reverse.     It 
was  probably  an  altar  to  Bacchus  —  possibly  a  funeral  urn. 
Under  the  festoons  of  fruits  and  flowers  that  grace  the 
[  283  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY  IN   ITALY 

pedestal,  the  corners  of  which  are  ornamented  with  the 
skulls  of  goatSj  are  sculptured  some  figures  of  Mseuads 
under  the  inspiration  of  the  god.  Nothing  can  be  con- 
ceived more  wild  and  terrible  than  their  gestures,  touching, 
as  they  do,  the  verge  of  distortion,  into  which  their  fine 
limbs  and  lovely  forms  are  thrown.  There  is  nothing, 
however,  that  exceeds  the  possibility  of  nature,  though  it 
borders  on  its  utmost  line. 

The  tremendous  spirit  of  superstition,  aided  by  drunk- 
enness, producing  something  beyond  insanity,  seems  to 
have  caught  them  in  its  whirlwinds,  and  to  bear  them  over 
the  earth,  as  the  rapid  volutions  of  a  tempest  have  the 
ever-changing  trunk  of  a  waterspout,  or  as  the  torrent  of  a 
mountain  river  whirls  the  autumnal  leaves  resistlessly  along 
in  its  full  eddies.  The  hair,  loose  and  floating,  seems 
caught  in  the  tempest  of  their  own  tumultuous  motion; 
their  heads  are  thrown  back,  leaning  with  a  strange  delirium 
upon  their  necks,  and  looking  up  to  heaven  whilst  they 
totter  and  stumble  even  in  the  energy  of  their  tempestuous 
dance. 

One  represents  Agave  with  the  head  of  Pentheus  in  one 
hand,  and  in  the  other  a  great  knife  ;  a  second  has  a  spear 
with  its  pine  cone,  which  was  the  Thyrsus ;  another  dances 
with  mad  voluptuousness ;  the  fourth  is  beating  a  kind  of 
tambourine. 

This  was  indeed  a  monstrous  superstition,  even  in 
Greece,  where  it  was  alone  capable  of  combining  ideal 
beauty  and  abstract  enthusiasm  with  the  wild  errors  from 
Avhich  it  sprung.  In  Rome  it  had  a  more  familiar,  wicked, 
and  dry  appearance ;  it  was  not  suited  to  the  severe  and 
[  284  ] 


THE   YEAR   1822 

exact  apprehensions  of  the  Eomansj  and  their  strict  morals 
were  violated  by  it,  and  sustained  a  deep  injury,  little 
analogous  to  its  effects  upon  the  Greeks,  who  turned  all 
things  —  superstition,  prejudice,  murder,  madness  —  to 
beauty. 

On  the  Venus  called  Anadyomene 

She  has  just  issued  from  the  bath,  and  yet  is  animated 
with  the  enjoyment  of  it. 

She  seems  all  soft  and  mild  enjoyment,  and  the  curved 
lines  of  her  fine  limbs  flow  into  each  other  with  a  never- 
ending  sinuosity  of  sweetness.  Her  face  expresses  a 
breathless,  yet  passive  and  innocent  voluptuousness,  free 
from  affectation.  Her  lips,  without  the  sublimity  of  lofty 
and  impetuous  passion,  the  grandeur  of  enthusiastic  imagi- 
nation of  the  Apollo  of  the  Capitol,  or  the  union  of  both, 
like  the  Apollo  Belvedere,  have  the  tenderness  of  arch,  yet 
pure  and  affectionate  desire,  and  the  mode  in  which  the 
ends  of  the  mouth  are  drawn  in,  yet  lifted  or  half-opened, 
with  the  smile  that  for  ever  circles  round  them,  and  the 
tremulous  curve  into  which  they  are  wrought  by  inex- 
tinguishable desire,  and  the  tongue  lying  against  the  lower 
lip,  as  in  the  listlessness  of  passive  joy,  express  love,  still 
love. 

Her  eyes  seem  heavy  and  swimming  with  pleasure,  and 
her  small  forehead  fades  on  both  sides  into  that  sweet 
swelling  and  thin  declension  of  the  bone  over  the  eye,  in 
the  mode  which  expresses  simple  and  tender  feelings. 

The  neck  is  fuU,  and  panting  as  with  the  aspiration  of 
delight,  and  flows  with  gentle  curves  into  her  perfect  form. 
[  285  ] 


WITH   SHELLEY   IN  ITALY 

Her  form  is  indeed  perfect.  She  is  half-sitting  and 
half-rising  from  a  shell,  and  the  fulness  of  her  limbs,  and 
their  complete  roundness  and  perfection,  do  not  diminish 
the  vital  energy  with  which  they  seem  to  be  animated. 
The  position  of  the  arms,  which  are  lovely  beyond  imagi- 
nation, is  natural,  unaffected,  and  easy.  This,  perhaps,  is 
the  finest  personification  of  Yenus,  the  deity  of  superficial 
desire,  in  all  antique  statuary.  Her  pointed  and  pear- 
like person,  ever  virgin,  and  her  attitude  modesty  itself. 

Michael  Angelo's  Bacchus 

The  countenance  of  this  figure  is  a  most  revolting  mistake 
of  the  spirit  and  meaning  of  Bacchus.  It  looks  drunken, 
brutal,  narrow-minded,  and  has  an  expression  of  dissolute- 
ness the  most  revolting.  The  lower  part  of  the  figure  is 
stiff,  and  the  manner  in  which  the  shoulders  are  united  to 
the  breast,  and  the  neck  to  the  head,  abundantly  inhar- 
monious. It  is  altogether  without  unity,  as  was  the  idea 
of  the  deity  of  Bacchus  in  the  conception  of  a  Catholic. 
On  the  other  hand,  considered  only  as  a  piece  of  workman- 
ship, it  has  many  merits.  The  arms  are  executed  in  a 
style  of  the  most  perfect  and  manly  beauty.  The  body  is 
conceived  with  great  energy,  and  the  manner  in  which  the 
lines  mingle  into  each  other,  of  the  highest  boldness  and 
truth.  It  wants  unity  as  a  work  of  art  —  as  a  representa- 
tion of  Bacchus  it  wants  everything. 


[  286  ] 


INDEX 


INDEX 


^^A,  Circe's  island,  199 

Albaiio,  92 

Albano  (painter)  in  Bologna  Gal- 
lery, 65 

Amphitheatre,  Rome,  71,  102 ;  see 
illustrations  facing  70,  102 

Angelo,  Michael,  in  Uffizi  Gal- 
lery, 286;  see  illustration  facing 
282 

Apennines,  The,  3,  5,  9,  14,  26, 
67,  250  ;  see  illustration  facing 
2 

Arch  of  Constantine,  71,  95,  101; 
see  illustration  facing  90 

Arch  of  Septimus  Severus,  95 

Arch  of  Titus,  101;  see  illustrations 
facing  98,  102 

Arch  of  Trajan,  see  Arch  of 
Constantine 

Arno,  River,  "  Wood  that  skirts 
the,  near  Florence,"  146  {note), 
see  illustrations  facing  146;  at 
Pisa,  254,  see  illustration  facing 
238 

Arno,  Vale  of,  14 

Arqua,  16,  63 ;  see  illustration 
facing  16 

Avernus,  Lake,  77 

Bacchus,     Uffizi    Gallery,     286  ; 

see  illustration  facing  282 
Bagni    di    Lucca,    9,    62 ;    letter 

from,  9  ;  see  illustration  facing 

10 
Baiffi,  Excursion  to,  76,  195  {note); 


Bay  of,  76,  147,  196;  see  illus- 
tration facing  196 

Barberini  Palace,  Portrait  of  La 
Cenci  in,  127 ;  see  illustration 
facing  126 

Biographical  Notes :  Bagni  di 
Lucca,  Este,  Naples  (1818),  3  ; 
Rome,  Leghorn,  Florence  (1819), 
87 ;  Leghorn,  Pisa  (1820  and 
1821),  153  ;  Pisa,  Bay  of  Lerici 
(1822),  259 

Bologna,  Letter  from,  64  ;  see  illus- 
trations  facing  62,  66;  leaning 
towers  of,  66,  see  illustratio'ii 
facing  66 

Byron,  Lord,  4,  22,  36,  60-62, 
153,  233,  244,  247,  261,  279  ; 
as  Maddalo  in  "Julian  and 
Maddalo,"  36-59 

Campagna  di  Roma,  70,  92  ;  see 
illustration  facing  86 

Caracalla,  Baths  of,  92  ;  see  illus- 
tration facing  80 

Carracci  in  Bologna  Gallery,  65 

Casa  Magni  (Casa  Maccarini),  259, 
278  ;  see  frontispiece,  and  illus- 
tration facing  262 

Cascine,  Pine  forest  of  the,  near 
Pisa,  267;  see  illustration  facing 
152 

Castor  and  Pollux,  statues  on  steps 
of  Capitol,  Rome,  97 

Cenci  Palace,  Rome,  128  ;  see  il- 
lustration faci^ig  132 


19 


[289] 


INDEX 


Cestius,  Tomb  of,  73,  228  ;  see 
illustration  facing  242 

Coleridge,  Samuel  T.,  164 

Coliseum,  Rome,  71,  102;  see  il- 
lustrations facing  70,  102 

Colonna  Palace,  127 

Como,  Lake,  6  ;  scene  of  ' '  Rosa- 
lind and  Helen  "  laid  on  shores, 
4,  10;  see  illustration  facing  4 

Como,  Town  of,  6 

Da  Vinci,  Leonardo,  in  Flor- 
entine Gallery,  143  ;  see  illus- 
tration facing  142 

Doge's  Palace,  Venice,  62  ;  see 
illustration  facing  46 

Domenicliino  in  Bologna  Gallery, 
65 

English  cemetery,  Rome,  72,  228, 
241,  263 ;  see  illustration  fac- 
ing 242 

Este,  "To  Mary  Shelley"  writ- 
ten from,  14  ;  Mary  Shelley's 
description  of,  15  ;  letter  from, 
62 

Euganean  Hills,  scene  of  poem,  16  ; 
in  "Julian  and  Maddalo,"  40; 
see  illustrations  facing  14,  28,  40 


Fano,  67 

Florence,  Letters  from,  13,  243  ; 
description  of,  14;  in  "  Mar- 
enghi, "  30  ;  see  illustration  fac- 
ing 32 

Florentine  Gallery,  Medusa  of 
Leonardo  da  Vinci,  143 

Foligno,  67 

Fontana  di  Trevi,  Rome,  99 

Forum,  Rome,  72,  95  ;  see  illustra- 
tion facing  92 

Fossombrone,  67 

Fountains  of  Rome,  99 

[290] 


Gisbokne,  Mr.  and  Mrs.,  156  ; 
letter  to,  9  ;  letter  in  verse  to 
Mrs.  Gisborne  in  London,  157- 
169 ;  letter  to  Mr.  Gisborne, 
248 

Godwin,  father-in-law  of  Shelley, 
164 

Gondolas,  Padua,  60  ;  Venice,  62 

Guercino  in  Bologna  Gallery,  65 ; 
see  illustration  faci^ig  66 

Hogg,  Thomas  Jefferson,  165, 

168 
Hunt,  Leigh,  38,   165,   168,   235, 

247,   261-264,    279;    letter    to, 

278 

Inarime  (island  of  Ischia),  192, 
196 

"Jane"  (Mrs.  Edward  Williams), 
153,  154,  260;  "To  Jane:  the 
Invitation,"  264-266;  "To 
Jane :  the  Recollection,"  267- 
270 ;  "  With  a  Guitar  :  to 
Jane,"  270-273;  "To  Jane," 
274,  275 

Keats,  John,  newsof  death  of  and 
inspiration  of  "  Adonais,"  155; 
sketch  of  in  preface  to  "Adon- 
ais," 228  ;  subject  of  poem,  229- 
243  ;  see  illustrations  facing  2QQ, 
210 


Leghorn  (Livomo),  Letters  from, 
9, 126, 156,  157  ;  Shelley's  home 
at,  126,  155 ;  Shelley's  last 
journey  to,    261,    278 

Lerici,  Bay  and  town  of,  259 ; 
"Lines  Written  in  the  Bay  of 
Lerici,"  275-277  ;  letters  from, 
278,  279  ;  sec  frontispiece,  and  il- 
lustratiom  facing  246,  248,  250, 
254 


INDEX 


Letters : 

to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gisborne,  9 

to  Mrs.  Gisborne  (in  verse),  157- 
169  ;  to  Mr.  Gisborne,  248 

to  Leigli  Hunt,  278 

to  Thomas  Love  Peacock,  6,  9, 
62,  64,  67,  70,  75,  80,  91,  125, 
126,  156,  187 

to  Mary  Shelley,  13,  59,  243, 
244,  247 

to  Horace  Smith,  279 
"Liberal,  The,"  261,  279 
Lido   at  Venice,  38,    41,  61  ;   see 

illustration  forcing  36 
Livorno   (Leghorn),    Letter   from, 

126 
Lombardy,    Plain   of,   9,   19,    64; 

leaning  towers  of,  66  ;  see  illus- 
tration facing  52 
Lucca,  Baths  of,  62 ;  see  Bagni  di 

Lucca 


Maremma,  The,  82 

Mare  Morto,  76;  see  illustration 
facing  196 

Mavrocordato  (Greek  prince),  154 

Medici  family.  Residence  of,  64 

Medusa  (Leonardo  da  Vinci),  Flor- 
entine Gallery,  143;  see  illustra- 
tion facing  142 

Medwin,  Thomas,  153 

Metaurus  River,  67 

Milan,  Letter  from,  6;  cathedral 
of,  8;  see  illustrations  facing  6,  8 

Minerva,  Uffizi  Gallery,  Florence, 
282-285;  see  illustration  facing 
274 

Misenum,  Cape,  76 ;  see  illustration 
facing  196 

Mola  di  Gaeta,  91 

Monte  Nuovo,  77 

Moore,  Thomas,  233 


Naples,  Letters  from,  70,  75,  80, 
187;  "Stanzas  written  in  De- 
jection, near  Naples,"  73;  Bay 
of,  76  ;  "  Ode  to  Naples," 
195-201 

Nar,  River,  70 

Nepi,  70 

Niobe,  Uffizi  Gallery,  Florence, 
243,  280-282 ;  see  illustration 
facing  218 

Nisida,  Island  of,  76 

Padua,  23-25,  60  ;  see  illustration 
facing  24 

Paestum,  see  Posidonia 

Pantheon,  Rome,  98  ;  see  illustra- 
tion facing  96 

Peacock,  Thomas  Love,  Letters  to, 
6,  9,  62,  64,  67,  70,  75,  80,  91, 
125, 126,  156, 187;  reference  to  in 
poetical  letter  to  Maria  Gisborne, 
165,  168  ;  in  letter  to  Mr.  Gis- 
borne, 248 

Pesto,  see  Posidonia 

Petrarch,  Tomb  and  house  of,  16, 
23,  64;  see  illustration  facing  16 

Piazza  Navona,  Rome,  Fountain 
in,  99 

Piazza  Quirinale  (Monte  Cavallo) 
fountain,  100 

Pineta,  near  Pisa,  154;  sccillustra- 
tion  facing  152 

Pisa,  Description  of,  9  ;  ruins  of, 
31;  Shelley's  home  there,  153, 
154,  247,  248  ;  prison  of  Ugolino, 
203  ;  Convent  of  St.  Anne,  204; 
letter  from,  248  ;  "  Evening  : 
Ponte  al  Mare,  Pisa,"  254  ;  see 
illustrations  facing  234,  238 

Pliniana,  Villa,  7. 

Pompeii,  described  in  letter,  187- 
194  ;  in  "Ode  to  Naples,"  195  ; 
sec  illustrations  facing  186,  192, 
200,  204 


[291  ] 


INDEX 


Porto  Venere  ;  see  illustration 
facing  254 

Posidouia  (Pesto  or  Paestum),  SO, 
82  ;  see  illiLstrations facing  74,  78 

Posilipo,  76. 

Pozzuoli,  Bay  of,  76,  77. 

Prato  Fiorito,  9 

Protestant  cemetery,  Piome,  72  ; 
Keats  buried  iu,  228;  Shelley's 
son  buried  in,  241 ;  Shelley 
buried  in,  263  ;  see  illustrations 
facing  206,  214,  242 

Eaphael  in  Bologna  Gallery,  64 ; 
see  illustration  facing  62 

Ravenna,  Letters  from,  244,  247; 
description  of,  244  ;  tombs  of 
emperors  in,  246;  see  illustrations 
facing  222,  226,  230 

Resina,  78 

Revele}',  Henry,  156 

Rimini,  67 

Rome,  Letters  from,  67,  91,  125  ; 
prose  description,  70  ;  story  of 
"The  Cenci,"  127  ;  in  "  Ode  to 
Liberty,"  180  ;  Protestant  ceme- 
tery, 72,  228,  241,  263;  in 
"Adonais,"  240;  see  illustra- 
tions facing  70,  92,  96,  98,  102, 
138,  206,  210,  214,  242 

St.  Angelo,    Castle,   Rome ;    see 

illustration  facing  138 
St.  Cecilia  (Raphael),  Bologna,  64  ; 

see  illustroMon  facing  62 
St.    Paul    Without    the     Walls, 

Rome,  246 
St.  Peter's,  Rome,  97 
Salerno,   81,   82 ;   see  illustrations 

facing  82 
San    Giuliauo,    Baths    of,    155  ; 

Mountains  of,  250 
San  Salvador,  Hermitage  of,  78 
Sant'  Apollinare,    Chiesa  di,    Ra- 


venna, 246  ;  see  illustration  fac- 
ing 230 

San  Terenzo,  259  ;  sec  illustration 
facing  250 

San  Vitale,  Chiesa  di,  Ravenna, 
244  ;  see  illustration  facing  222 

Serchio  River,  155  ;  "  The  Boat 
on  the  Serchio,"  249-253  ;  sec 
illustration  facing  258 

Sgricci  (improvisatore),  154 

Shelley,  Mary  ;  addressed  in  poems, 
5,  14  ;  letters  to,  13,  59,  243, 
244,  247  ;  her  description  of  villa 
at  Este,  15  ;  of  home  at  Pisa,  153 ; 
her  explanatory  notes,  29,  75  ; 
in  regard  to  home  at  Lerici,  279 

Sirani,  Elisabetta,  65 

Smith,  Horace,  166,  168,  248; 
letter  to,  279 

Solfatara,  77 

Spezia,  Gulf  of,  278  ;  see  Lerici, 
Bay  and  town  of 

Spoleto,  68  ;  see  illustration  facing 
58 

Staggia,  Fortress  at,  181 ;  see  illus- 
tration facing  180 

Temple  of  Concord,  95 

Terni,  Falls  of,  67;  see  illustration 

facing  68 
Terracina,  91 
Theodoric    the    Great,   Tomb    of, 

Ravenna,   245 ;   sec   illustration 

facing  226 
Theodosius,  Tomb  of,  Ravenna,  see 

Theodoric  the  Great,  Tomb  of 
Torre  del  Greco,  81 
Trelawney,  Captain  Edward,  153, 

154 
Tremezina,  The,  6 

Ugolino,  Prison  of,  Piazza  de' 
Cavalieri,  Pisa  ("The  Tower  of 
Famine  "),  203 


[292] 


INDEX 


VaccA.  (the  physician),  154 

Vado,  Tower  of,  29,  32 

Velino  River,  Falls  of  (Terni),  68, 
70 

Venice :  in  "  Lines  "Written  Among 
the  Euganean  Hills,"  19-23;  in 
"Julian  and  Maddalo,"  36,  38; 
letter  from,  59;  prose  descrip- 
tion, 62;  see  illustration  facing 
20 

Venus  Anadyomene,  Uffizi  Gallery, 
Florence,  285 ;  see  illustration 
facing  278 

Vesuvius,  75,  78,  192;  in  "Ode 
to  Naples,"  195;  see  illustrations 
facing  192,  200 


Via  Flaminia,  67 

Viareggio,  262, 262;  see  illustrations 

facing  266,  270 
Villa  di  Cicerone,  Mola  di  Gaeta,  91 
Villa  Mecocci,  on  Via  del  Fagiano, 

Leghorn,   126 
Villa  Pliniana,  Este,  7 

Williams,  Captain  and  Mrs.  Ed- 
ward,  153,  154,  247,  259-262; 
278  ;  Captain  Williams  as 
"Melchior"  in  "The  Boat  on 
the  Serchio,"  250  et  seq. 


[293] 


UNIFORM     WITH    THIS    VOLUME 

FLORENCE  IN  THE 
POETHY  OF  THE  BROWNINGS 

Edited  by  Anna  Benneson  McMahan 

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FOURTEEN  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

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Renjewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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